Saruman and the Blue Wizards
by Rob Rastorp
Summary: A chronicle of the journeys of Curunir, Alatar and Pallando in the lands east of Anduin, beginning with the arrival of the Istari in Middle Earth.
1. The Arrival of the Istari

**I.) The Arrival of the Istari**

Cirdan the Shipwright stood on the balcony of his tower at Mithlond, his snowy hair flowing in the sea breeze, and gazed in astonishment at the shimmering waters of the Gulf of Lune.

The Sun was bright, and the late morning air was clear; on such a day Cirdan's keen eyes could see for many long leagues. On the horizon, he had spotted a ship sailing east, from the Great Sea inland toward Mithlond, known the Grey Havens in the Common Tongue of Men.

In itself, that was not unusual. Now and again, a ship of Men would even sail toward Mithlond from distant Gondor, bearing officials and scholars seeking counsel and lore from the Elves of the Havens.

Yet, the ship in Cirdan's gaze had not come from Gondor, or any land of Men. Even from this distance, many leagues off, he could see, beyond any doubt, that it was one of the White Swan ships of Tol Eressea, that easternmost of the Undying Lands, nigh to holy Valinor!

The Undying Lands, which had long since been removed from the Circles of the World, were hidden now in another plane of space and time, forever beyond the reach of mortals.

Only the Elves of Middle Earth, when they grew weary of the mortal lands, could take ship at Cirdan's harbour of Mithlond, and sail west along the mystical Straight Road that lead above the bent seas, and through the mists of time to emerald Eressea in the Bay of Eldamar.

Since the defeat of the Enemy in the wastes of Gorgoroth a thousand years before, and the death in that place of despair of the Elven High King Erenion Gil-galad, the High Elven exiles who had long dwelt in Middle Earth had sought the Havens growing numbers, taking ship to Avallone upon Eressea, never to return. Few of that exalted race now dwelt in mortal lands, and their ancient settlement at Forlond was all but abandoned in these latter days. Even many of the Grey Elves of Middle Earth had begun to weary of their ancient home, and seek rest in those fabled lands of the High Elves, in the uttermost West. The glory days of the Elves were long past; this Third Age of the Sun was the fading time, which the Elven-wise knew spelled the looming end of Elvendom on Earth, and the stirrings of the coming Dominion of Men.

Thus it was both a shock and a delight to Cirdan to see one of the Swan ships of Eressea sailing east across the straight road to Mithlond. No ships had sailed east from the Undying Lands to Middle Earth since the War of Wrath that marked the end of the Elder Days, more than four-thousand years before. What errand could possibly cause the Elves who dwelt in the blessed lands of the West of West to seek now the mortal realm of Middle Earth?

His mind racing with questions, Cirdan gathered up his flowing blue robes and hurried down the marble steps of the tower. As he strode through the archway that opened at the foot of the stairs upon the granite-flagged path leading down to the docks, he heard the clear ringing of silver trumpets from the towers and balconies of Mithlond, hailing as always the arrival of a ship at the pier. Yet Cirdan could also hear the murmuring and cries of wonder echoing across the curving alleys and stately houses of noble Mithlond; it appeared that other Elves had now discerned that this was no common ship gracing their shores.

As Cirdan arrived by the longest of the granite quays of the harbour, he found a growing crowd of Elves already assembled, their elegant robes flowing in the sea breeze as they sought to discern every detail of the Swan ship; many of the younger Elves had never before seen a ship from Avallone upon Eressea. As they saw Cirdan approach, they bowed their heads respectfully and cleared a path for him to the end of the quay - for since the death of Gil-galad, Cirdan had been the ruler of all the Elves of Lindon, the Havens in the northwest of Middle Earth, and he was renowned as a wise and powerful lord even amongst so many who were great and noble in their own right.

Cirdan reached the end of the quay, and stared toward the horizon. Between the two low, forested mountain peaks that bounded the waters of the Gulf just west of Mithlond, he could now discern every detail of the White Swan ship, which sailed toward the shore with great speed. The entire hull of the ship, some fifty feet long and painted snow white, was carved in the likeness of one of those noble birds who lived by the shores of Eldamar, from graceful beak and sweeping wings to long-fanned tail. Yet where the back of a swan would be, the hull was open, and above its deck soared a tall white mast, bedecked by a white sail burnished with silver stars, billowing with the West wind. The swan wings soared high above the deck, and blocked from view the passengers aboard the ship.

After some minutes, the winds died down, and the Swan-ship slowed, coming to a halt as it slid alongside the quay. Several of the Elves on shore, clad in the plain grey robes of those who spent their days at work amongst the docks, cast shimmering Elven-ropes over the sides of the hull, and unseen hands onboard the ship took hold and fastened them inside. The grey-clad Elves stepped back as the swan wing nearest the quay swung down, touching the ground, so that it could serve as a ramp. Cirdan strode to the base of this ramp, leaving some space for the passengers to disembark, and stood alongside the other Elves crowded along the quay, staring upwards for a glimpse of the first passenger to come into view.

The sounds of heavy, boot-shod feet could be heard on the deck of the ship, and the Elves gasped as a tall figure, cloaked in white and wearing a peaked white hat, appeared at the top of the ramp, and strode swiftly down to the quay. This was no Elf – his visage and his long, sable beard could only belong to a Man!

"How could a mortal dwell in the Undying Lands, and if indeed he could, why would he seek to return to Middle Earth?" whispered a very young Elf, who had lived for but a few centuries under the Sun.

"Be silent, lad!" shot back Cirdan under his breath. "Even a fool can see this being is not a Man, whatever the fleshly garb in which he is clad." The Elven-youth blushed and fell silent, reflecting that the ever-mounting years had worn on Cirdan's patience, even as they added to his store of wisdom.

Cirdan turned his attention to the figure who now stood, tall and proud, on the quay before him. He was indeed in the shape of a Man, garbed in rich, flowing robes and cloak of creamy white, with a matching peaked hat and heavy black boots. He held in his right hand a long ebon staff, its tip bearing barbs between which was mounted a small sphere of opaque crystal. He had a long, narrow face and a long, aquiline nose. His sable beard and hair were tinged with grey, although his bushy eyebrows were jet black, contrasting with his sallow skin. His eyes were like black pools on a cloudless night, sombre and deep. Cirdan wondered greatly at him, for he possessed an air of such pride and power that even a High Elf of the West might well blanch in his presence, and fear to risk his wrath.

Cirdan was about to bid welcome to this mysterious guest, when he again heard footfalls on the ramp. He looked upwards, realizing that this seeming Man had not traveled alone from Valinor. Striding down the ramp were another two beings who appeared akin to the one now standing on the shore. They seemed like mirror images of each other; for one was garbed in a sea blue cloak and sky blue robes and peaked hat, while the other was garbed in sky blue cloak and sea blue hat and robes. Both bore staffs of clear crystal in their right hands, though the staff of the former was surmounted by a sea blue sphere, and the latter a sphere of sky blue tone. They wore black boots identical to those of the first visitor. Both these blue-robed beings stepped onto the quay, and stood behind and to the left of the visitor in white, as if acknowledging his greater majesty. They were tall, and yet not as tall as he. Their faces were so alike to each other as to be those of twins; black-bearded, blue-eyed, pale-skinned, narrow-faced and straight-nosed. Their eyes were like the sea or the sky, ever shifting, sometimes clear and light, sometimes dark and deep.

While Cirdan contemplated these new arrivals, yet more footfalls sounded on the ramp, and Cirdan looked up to see this next visitor. The figure who had now come into view was dressed in a manner akin to the first three, yet seemed of quite different type, albeit still in the guise of a Man. His robes and cloak were of earthen brown, as were his boots, though his peaked hat was the deep green of a forest in summer. He bore a staff of some smooth beige wood, tipped with a crystal sphere of emerald green. His beard was brown, nearly the same colour as his garb, but his tanned skin was offset by ruddy cheeks. He had a broad, heavy-set face, and a snub nose, and was the same height as those who were garbed in blue. He stepped onto the quay and stood behind and to the right of his white-robed counterpart, and returned Cirdan's gaze. His brown eyes, speckled with green, were full of warmth and mirth. He turned his gaze from Cirdan to the other Elves, and to their amazement he gave a sudden laugh, rich and mellow, as if to set their fears at ease. The blue-garbed visitors stared at him impassively, although the white-robed being frowned for a moment and raised his eyebrow, as if this sudden merriment were an assault on his dignity.

While Cirdan took in this scene, he again heard footfalls on the ramp, and looked up to see yet another figure stride purposefully toward the quay on his black boots. This being, shorter and smaller than any of the others, was robed and cloaked in grey, and grey were his long beard and hair, though his peaked hat was a pale blue. His staff was of knotted dark brown wood, and tipped with a clear angular crystal. His skin was pale, though his cheeks were rosy pink, and his face and nose were long, though less thin than those of the being robed in white. He strode past his kindred and stood to the right of the brown-robed figure, but apart from the others. At first his gaze was hidden from view by the wide brim of his hat, but suddenly he looked up at Cirdan, and beneath his bushy grey eyebrows his eyes were a strikingly bright shade of blue, sharp and piercing and full of light. He glanced briefly at the white-robed being, who had regained his full composure, and then to Cirdan's surprise he turned and acknowledged the Elven-lord's own gaze with a nod and a wink.

Cirdan and the other Elves stood silent for some minutes, studying the visages of these strange visitors, and waiting to see if any more would disembark from the ship. But no further footfalls were heard, and it became apparent that these five were the only ones who had journeyed over the long Straight Road from the uttermost West. Then, assuming his duties as a host, Cirdan stepped forward, bowed his head, and with a sweeping gesture of welcome greeted his visitors:

"_Mae govannen_, my lords," he said in his soft voice. "Well met! An age and an age has it been since any journeyed eastward from the Blessed Lands to the grey shores of Middle Earth, and we are full of joy at your arrival unlooked for. I am Cirdan, Lord of these Havens, and of the Elves who dwell herein. I am proud to honour you as my guests, and offer you any aid or counsel that is within my power, humble though my wisdom and lore might seem to such as you. May I enquire, great lords, as to your names and stations, the better to serve and honour you during your stay with us?"

The five beings on the quay bowed silently in reply. Then, the white-robed figure stepped forward and spoke, in a deep, yet mellow voice that was a balm to the listener. "Greetings, Lord Cirdan," said he. "You are indeed known to us, for many of your kindred who have sailed from your Havens to seek the Blessed Realm have spoken to us of your wisdom and power, which I see now are matched only by your kindness and courtesy. My cousins and I thank you for your noble words."

The visitor then frowned, and his dark eyes appeared sorrowful, as he adopted an apologetic tone. "Yet I fear I cannot tell you our names, just yet. Indeed, please accept my apologies for what I must now do." He raised his ebon staff, and pointed it at the Elves behind Cirdan. His deep voice cried out like thunder, echoing across the waters, as he spoke a Word of Command in a language unknown to Cirdan.

There was a sudden flash like lightning, and Cirdan stepped back in shock, shielding his eyes, almost losing his balance and falling over the quay into the water before he regained his senses. He stared at his Elven subjects, and to his amazement and growing alarm, saw that they were asleep on their feet! Their eyes were open, yet they did not move, and Cirdan could see plainly that their minds had departed to the land of dreams, far removed from the waking world. Indeed, the whole of Mithlond was now utterly silent, apart from the crash of surf against the shore, and the call of sea birds. It was as if the entire city were under an enchanted sleep and Cirdan the only waking Elf within its walls.

Cirdan stared sharply at the seeming Man in white. In a harder tone of voice than that which he had used in greeting, he said "What is the meaning of this, my lord? Why have you banished the minds of my people from the waking world – for 'tis plain you have done so, by art and lore beyond my ken – and yet spared me alone?"

"Again, please accept my humble apologies," replied the white-robed figure, bowing deeply. Cirdan felt at once that the Man's apology was sincere, and swiftly felt calmer and more accepting of what had just happened, though his shock and anger were not entirely abated. He noted that the two Men robed in blue were staring at him inscrutably, while the Man in brown had stepped back, looking almost as alarmed as Cirdan himself had a moment before. The Man in grey stared at the ground and shook his head, muttering words under his breath that Cirdan could not hear.

Cirdan turned back to the visitor in white, who was now speaking again, in that deep, mellow voice. "My deed was unfortunate, but necessary," said the Man, smiling benevolently, his dark eyes now warm and friendly. "It is commanded by Those who sent us hither that until our mission is at the cusp of fulfillment, our true names, origins, and purposes shall not be revealed in full - save to you, and to two others of Elven-kind who are deemed by the Lords of the West to be your equals in wisdom and power. I have placed your people under a spell of sleep, but it will do them no harm. When they awake, some hours from now, they will wonder why they are standing on the quay, but they will have no memory of the events of this morning." Turning to the Men in blue, he said "Will you see to our ship, my friends? The Sea Elves of Avallone await its return."

The blue-robed beings nodded gravely. The one in the sea blue cloak pointed his staff at the ship, murmuring soft, mellow words in the same unknown tongue used by the Man in white. The ramp gracefully raised itself up from the quay, and was restored to its position alongside the mast. The ropes suddenly loosened from the moorings, and slipped over the side of the ship, falling on the quay below, and the ship drifted out into the waters of the harbour. Then his counterpart, of the sky blue cloak, pointed his staff at the clouds that lay on the eastern horizon, and spoke in the unknown tongue, in a voice lighter and reedier than that of his companion. A sudden wind came out of the East, which filled the sails of the White Swan ship, speeding it back over the Straight Road to its home by the lamp lit quays of Avallone. Their work done, they turned toward the figure in white, and bowed their heads.

"Well done, my friends," said their leader – for so Cirdan perceived the white-robed being to be. "Well done." Turning to Cirdan again, he continued, "Now there will be no evidence of our arrival, save in your own memory. When we have revealed all to you, you will understand the importance of our secrecy, and I trust will disclose nothing to your people, or to others." He smiled again. "Now, we may reveal our names to you, and then with your permission we may take swift counsel in your chambers, before the spell of sleep is lifted from your subjects."

His white-robed form stood taller than ever, the very image of pride and dignity. "We are the Order of the Istari, and as you have perceived we are Maiar spirits, clothed in the flesh and garb of Men. We are the loyal servants of the Valar, their emissaries in these mortal lands. Our true names we shall reveal to you, and in time to your counterparts in wisdom, Lord Elrond Half-Elven and Queen Galadriel. Amongst other Elves, and Men, and other folk, we shall assume such names as our need or fancy suit us. But know that I am Curumo, the White, the most exalted of our sacred Order, chosen by the Valar themselves as our leader in the mighty tasks that await us."

Those in blue then spoke. "My name is Alatar" said the Man in the sea blue cloak, speaking in his soft, mellow voice. "And this is my friend, Pallando."

"We are the Blue Istari," said Pallando, the Istar in the sky blue cloak, speaking in a high, reedy voice. "Our minds and powers are complimentary, each to the other. We travel in common purpose, though we fear our mission will soon lead us far from Elven lands, and it may be long after this day before we see you again."

After a short silence, the Man in brown, who had seemed distracted for a moment by a passing seabird far overhead, turned his attention back to Cirdan. "Ah, well, yes," he laughed, in his merry voice. "My name is Aiwendil, the Brown. The Beasts and Birds, Trees and Herbs and Flowers of Middle Earth are my especial interest and charge. Yet I trust that I am here in common purpose with my fellows, and that my skills shall play their part in the days that lie ahead."

Then last spoke the Man in grey, who had shifted his piercing stare from each of his kindred to the next as they spoke, and now gazed with his bright blue eyes at Cirdan. "I am Olorin, the Grey" said he, in a deep if somewhat rasping voice. "That name I shall not speak again in Middle Earth for many a long year. In the Sindarin tongue of your folk, you may call me Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim; for I have many tasks, and little time to abide in any one land."

"Curunir is the name that I would choose in your tongue, in place of Curumo" said the White Istar.

"The Man of Skill" replied Cirdan. "As you wish, lord."

"I shall keep my name, for now, even if it must be secret from others," smiled Aiwendil. "Perhaps Men shall find their own name for me, in time, and then I shall adopt that name for use by all."

"We also shall keep our own names, though keep them secret from others for the moment" said the Blue Wizards. "Indeed, who knows what names shall be found for us in time," continued Alatar, "by the Men of the distant lands to which our travels must lead."

"Now," said Curunir the White, "you have had the full account of our names and origins, my lord Cirdan. Pray take us to your halls, so that we may take counsel with you, and divulge to you something of our purposes in the days ahead."

"As you wish, my lords," said Cirdan, gently pushing aside some of the Elves on the quay, still asleep on their feet, so that his guests could follow him to his own house. "Follow me."


	2. The Council of Cirdan

**II.) The Council of Cirdan**

The five Istari sat in the council chamber of Cirdan's palace, on elaborately carved high-backed chairs of oak, around a circular table carved of oak and inlaid with mother-of-pearl and seashells. The entire room was of white marble, its floors, walls and ceiling inlaid with many smooth, polished gems set in cunning designs. The three open, arched windows of the chamber, which were framed by curtains of glittering gems, faced westward. They offered a view across the grey granite roofs and spires of Mithlond towards the Blue Mountains, between the northern and southern ranges of which lay the Gulf of Lune. The Sun shone high and bright in the afternoon sky, though the sea breeze afforded some relief from the summer's heat.

Cirdan sat at one end of the table, and to his right sat Curunir, while Mithrandir sat to his left. Aiwendil sat to the left of Mithrandir, and Alatar and Pallando to the right of Curunir, completing the circle. They had removed their peaked hats, which they stowed on the staffs they had left leaning on the walls of the chamber. They had supped on the sweetened bread and rich fruits beloved of the Elves, which Cirdan had brought them from his cellars. Now they were savouring in carved crystal goblets the heady wines from the nearby vineyards of Arthedain in Arnor, the North Kingdom of the Dunedain, those Men descended from the exiles who had fled from drowned Numenor at the Change of the World, nearly twelve-hundred years before.

Cirdan did not share in their feast, for he was eager to commence the deliberations of the Council – not least so that his people would be released from their enchanted sleep as quickly as possible.

At length, Curunir set down his goblet, and tapped its side with a slender fork, signaling to his fellow Istari that the council meeting was to begin.

"My friends," said Curunir " my friends – and may I say that I include you amongst my friends, most noble Elf - we are gathered here to make plain our purposes, so that the Elven–wise may understand fully what the Valar seek to accomplish through our embassy to Middle Earth. It is fit that we first reveal ourselves to Lord Cirdan, for he knows, or at least can guess as well as any of the Wise, why it is that the Valar have deemed it necessary to send five of their servants to these mortal lands." Curunir smiled. "Would you care to offer your own surmises, Lord Cirdan, as to what we seek to accomplish?"

"Your purposes surely cannot involve the fate of the Elves directly," replied Cirdan, with characteristic frankness, "for you well know our people have long been fading from this land. That is our doom, it seems. Ever we dwindle, and Men increase."

"Not all Men," remarked Mithrandir. "We have heard rumor that the Men of Arnor diminish in number even faster than the Elves."

"Aye, that is so," replied Cirdan. "By ill fate, the armies of Arnor suffered greater losses than those of Gondor during the Battle of Gorgoroth, a thousand years ago. I myself was at that terrible Battle, where we defeated the Enemy, and I saw firsthand the dreadful slaughter of the Arnor-men by Sauron the Accursed. And not long after that grim day, their finest warriors, the cream of those who had survived Battle of Gorgoroth, and who formed Isildur's honour-guard, were slain almost to a Man at the disaster of the Gladden Fields, alongside their liege. Ever since, there have been too few of the Dunedain to people the North Kingdom, and I have watched over many lives of Men as pestilence and misfortunate have devoured the settlements and shrunk the boundaries of that land."

Cirdan sighed. "Many places that were cultivated have been abandoned," he continued, "and evil begins to fester in the wild. The Dunedain of the North fear the stirring of the Goblins and the Hill-Trolls from the Misty Mountains to the East. A century or so ago they abandoned their capital of Annuminas, by the shores of Lake Evendim, which had become so sparsely populated that they deemed indefensible, for a new, smaller capital at the castle of Fornost, many leagues east and north of here. Nor is Arnor even properly a kingdom these days, as its three provinces of Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur are ruled by rival factions. King Beleg's writ does not extend far beyond his castle at Fornost and his estates in Arthedain. Some say that Fornost and the other castles and towers lately raised in Arnor were built by the Dunedain more out of fear of each other, and their competing ambitions for land and wealth, than out of fear of Goblins and Trolls." Cirdan paused. "And yet, while I respect the Men of Arnor, as much as any Men, and fear for their fate, I cannot believe that the Valar dispatched agents of your potency merely to save a single Kingdom of Men."

"Indeed," smiled Curunir. "It is not merely the fate of Arnor that concerns us. The World itself is in peril, as well you know, Cirdan. The time of the Elves is ending, and the Dominion of Men is being prepared. Our purpose, I will make plain to you now, is to make ready that Dominion, so that Men may claim the estate that was intended for them."

"Then you will have little need for our help," replied Cirdan. "For our people have grown estranged from Men, and they for their part rarely seek us out. It is true that we still have some ties to the Men of Arthedain, whose vineyards produced the wines you have savoured this afternoon. And indeed, sometimes the Gondor-men send their scholars to us, to learn our lore, though such visits are less frequent of late. But for our part, and by and large, those of our people who remain here in Middle Earth have chosen to retreat to the twilight and the starlight, focusing on our own labours and dwelling on our own sorrows. We Elves have come to care but little for the affairs of others."

"Not even for the welfare of the trees and flowers of the wood?" inquired Aiwendil, frowning. "Surely the Elves love all growing things."

"Perhaps we care more for the trees, and the birds and the beasts, than for Men," admitted Cirdan, smiling ruefully. "Though for many Elves the call of Valinor grows too strong to resist, and they wish to see trees and beasts of wondrous repute in the uttermost West, which are but legends in these mortal lands; for Middle Earth their ardour fades. But it is beyond doubt, I must confess, that towards Men we have grown cool of late."

"When you say of late, you surely mean for this age of the World," said Curunir. "Come, we know well why you Elves have grown estranged from Men. It is because of Men that the World is in peril, and that your victory at the Battle of Gorgoroth was seemingly in vain. Is that not so?"

"Aye, it is," replied Cirdan, his soft voice tinged with bitterness and regret. "Though in fairness it is one Man in particular, long dead, who merits our ill feelings. It is because of Isildur and his Bane…"

"Do not speak too openly of such things, even here," cautioned Mithrandir.

"Your vigilance is a noble trait, Mithrandir, yet surely you are too wary in this matter," chided Pallando. "All present at this table have heard of Isildur's Bane, and know what it signifies. Why not discuss it openly?"

"Indeed," said Alatar, "we have heard the tales from the High Elven exiles who returned to Avallone after the Battle, bearing word of Isildur's folly. And few things are not seen by Manwe and Varda, from their high seat atop Mount Taniquetl in Valinor."

"We are not in Valinor," replied Mithrandir, somewhat testily, "but in a land which once lay under the Shadow, and may yet do so again. Even the birds and beasts are not to be trusted fully in these lands, for how do we know whom they might serve?" Aiwendil sat up suddenly, appearing alarmed at the thought. "The very walls might have ears," continued Mithrandir. "Let us then keep our words as guarded as they may be."

"Peace, Mithrandir," said Curunir, holding up his long, pale hand. "Let us not allow this council to dissolve into bickering. We do a disservice to our host, by thus consuming his time." Turning to Cirdan, he continued, "Suffice to say, Isildur's Bane places the World in peril, and the Dominion of Men is not secure. For the Enemy was defeated but not destroyed, and that which he lost, he may yet recover to the ruin of all."

Curunir frowned. "It is our task to first discover the gravity and immanence of this threat, and then determine how best to combat it. And despite your words, we would by all means welcome the aid of the Elves, though we do not ask the Sun and the Moon of you. It is because your people are fading from these lands, and have turned their backs on Men, that we have been sent to take your place, as the stewards and counselors of Men, their elder brothers in lore and wisdom."

Curunir then smiled. "We require of you, my lord Cirdan, merely that you make your own store of wisdom available to us when we have need of it. For the well of your knowledge of Middle Earth runs deep, we should drink deeply of it if we are to combat the Enemy and his servants. We have much to learn from you, of this land and its people, before we can fully assume your former place in the fight against the Enemy, and steer the ship of Men away from the shoals of his Shadow."

"I understand your purposes, Curunir, and appreciate your eagerness to do battle with the Enemy, should he return" replied Cirdan. "But, while I have said that you would not require our aid, do not discount our people entirely. We are fading from this land, but there are those among us – I speak not least of myself, and of Elrond and Galadriel - whose love of Middle Earth is so strong and deep that we will never leave it, or abandon Men to their fate, until we are certain that the Enemy has been annihilated, and his Shadow can never again imperil the World. Until that day, we three at least shall remain, and do whatever we can to aid those who fight against Sauron and his minions."

"Your courage and dedication are commendable, Cirdan," said Mithrandir. "Too many Elves, I daresay, take the straight and easy road to Valinor, and choose to forget how they and their ancestors sacrificed all to defend Middle Earth against a peril that is not yet vanquished. And we most certainly shall have need of your aid, and not merely of your lore." He shot a piercing glance at Curunir from beneath his bushy brows, and then returned his gaze to Cirdan. "You Elves have your own powers, which have not diminished entirely with the passing years. It would be a grievous loss to our cause if you did not use those powers in the fight against the Enemy."

"Indeed," said Curunir diplomatically, stroking his black beard, "there are those amongst the Elven people whose assistance would be most welcome in our common struggle – as I said. I meant merely that you Elves are no longer expected to shoulder the burden of leadership alone. For we Istari are now here to help you, and indeed to take up on your behalf the heavy mantle of the leadership of Men, so that you may direct your energies into more fruitful labours on behalf of our cause."

"No offense was taken, Curunir," replied Cirdan. "Though they have their own leaders, I shall surely welcome your efforts to restore wisdom to the conduct of Men, who have ever had a propensity towards foolishness and short-sightedness. Few Men love or trust the Elven people in these latter days; but, as you and your kindred have wisely chosen to take the forms of Men, you may succeed in offering them guidance where we have failed."

"And I speak merely of the Men of Numenor-in-Exile," continued Cirdan, "those of Arnor and Gondor, who are wiser by far than the other Men of Middle Earth, and have ties of blood and friendship to our people. The wild Men of the East and South, for instance, have long served the Enemy, and we have had no dealings with them at all."

"It is to them that we shall journey," said the Blue Wizards. "Too long have the Easterlings and Southrons been neglected," continued Pallando. "It is our task to turn them from the darkness, and show them the light – though we have much to learn of Men and their ways before we can guide them."

"It is our goal," offered Alatar, "that the Enemy, should he return, will find his power greatly reduced. He shall find only the Orcs and other evil beasts at his command, while all Men stand in common cause against him."

"An ambitious goal indeed," said Cirdan, bowing to the Blue Wizards in a gesture of respect. "And most worthy, should you attain the end that you seek. Though I fear you must indeed learn more of Men before you place any certainty in such high hopes for them."

"Since we apparently have need of your wisdom, at least, my lord Cirdan" said Mithrandir dryly, "perhaps you can being by telling us what you know of the Shadow. The Valar have descried from afar that the Shadow begins to grow again in the East, though it has not yet taken any form. What do you know of this?"

"Little more than rumour, and yet more than I would like," replied Cirdan uneasily. "You would do better to ask Elrond or Galadriel, for they dwell not so far from the Greenwood east of the river Anduin, and it is from there that the rumours of this Shadow originate. All I have heard is that in the south of the Greenwood, the Sylvan Elves have felt a growing fear, and that evil things – Orcs, and Wargs, and giant Spiders, and other fell beasts – have been seen in that land, where they were never known before. It is surely a great burden on the mind of King Thranduil, who is the Elven-lord of the Greenwood. He most of all should be consulted, if you would learn more of these rumors."

"These tidings may or may not be of significance to us," demurred Curunir. "That evil things stir in the Wilderland is of concern to those who dwell in those parts, no doubt. Whether these ill-tidings are simply ill-fortune, or imply something more sinister at work, remains to be seen. But each member of our order has his own special tasks to fulfill, and the investigation of these rumors must proceed as simply one labour among many."

Curunir paused, and glanced through the arched windows. The afternoon was well advanced, and Sun had begun to descend into the West, its beams reflected with dazzling light on the waters of the Gulf of Lune.

"Soon your people shall awaken from their sleep, Cirdan," said Curunir, turning his dark gaze back to the Elven-lord. "Time is pressing. We shall conclude this council by telling you of the tasks to which each of us has been appointed. Then, by your leave, we shall each borrow one of your horses and some provender, and depart before sunset."

"I shall provide you with what you need for your journeys," said Cirdan.

"Your generosity is most appreciated, my noble Elf," replied Curunir. "Know then that I purpose first to travel south and east to Gondor, so from the King at Osgiliath I may obtain permission to consult the Royal Archives guarded within the walls of Minas Anor. When I have had my fill of lore, I shall be properly equipped for my next task – which is no less than to travel east over Anduin to Mordor itself, and in that accursed land to learn what I might of the Enemy and his works."

"The Black Land is an ill place to visit for any purpose," frowned Cirdan. "Though it has long been abandoned, the very soil is stained by the evil of the Enemy. It is a place that brings bad days and worse nights, full of dark dreams. And who knows which of Sauron's creatures might hide even now in its most shadowy corners? Still," he continued "I doubt not that if any can dare the Black Land, it is you, Curunir the White. The servants of the Enemy will surely think twice before trifling with a being of your manifest power. And your journey to Gondor itself I endorse wholeheartedly, not least because it will allow you for the first time to take the measure of Men, whose guidance and welfare are your charge."

"We shall accompany Curunir to Gondor," said the Blue Istari. "For it is also to our advantage to take the measure of Men," said Pallando, "Men at their best and highest, before we cross the Anduin and seek to tame the wild Men of the East and South. Perhaps the Gondor-men can serve as an example, in our minds, toward which the Easterlings and Southrons can aspire."

"Indeed," said Alatar, "though we journey with Curunir to Gondor and then across the Andunin, we shall not accompany him to the Black Land. East of Anduin we shall take our separate paths; myself to the South, and Pallando to the East."

"My own tasks shall take me along a very different road," said Aiwendil. "I shall journey east, but across the realm of Arnor, and begin to acquaint myself with the birds and beasts, the trees and flowers of Middle Earth. For it is my province to learn all that I can of their lore, both to protect them from evil, and to see how they may be put to use in the struggle against the Enemy. I purpose in time to cross the Anduin to the Greenwood, as that is the greatest forest of the northern world, and thus the greatest repository of the lore that I seek." He hesitated, and looked pensively at Curunir. "With your permission, Curunir," he continued, "I could also venture into the south of the Greenwood, and investigate myself these rumors of a Shadow there. I may learn something of the utmost value to our cause."

"You have my permission," said Curunir serenely. "Though have a care not to disturb what evil creatures you might find there. We do not wish to tip our hand too soon. Gather what information you may, and then report back to me, or to Mithrandir if I am not available."

"I shall do so," replied Aiwendil.

"As for me," said Mithrandir, "I shall accompany Aiwendil for a time, east across Arnor, until I reach Rivendell. There I shall take counsel with Master Elrond, so that he, like you, Cirdan, is made familiar with our Order and our purposes. Though I know the Elven Wise can send thoughts into each others minds from afar," he winked, "still it is best that Elrond meet at least one of our Order personally, rather than hearing rumour of us from afar. And to learn I may from the Elves concerning this Middle Earth is one of my own particular tasks. Aiwendil is welcome to partake of that council if he wishes, and also to accompany me to Laurelindorean and consult with Queen Galadriel. Perhaps we can even journey together across the Anduin, and jointly scour the Greenwood for this Shadow, though I would fain learn what I might from King Thranduil before I embark on such a trial."

"I would welcome your company," smiled Aiwendil. "And indeed, perhaps we should consult with Thranduil first, before searching the depths of the Greenwood ourselves."

"Do as you wish," said Curunir. "When I have learned what I may in the Black Land, I might in time journey north to Thranduil's lands, and meet with you there, so that we may share with each other the information we have gathered in our several journeys."

"Then meet in the north of Wilderland we shall, though perhaps not for some years," replied Mithrandir. "I daresay it is better that we work together in our efforts, whenever possible, rather than each of us strive without regard to the labour of the others."

"So be it," said Curunir, rising from the table. The other Istari rose as well, and Cirdan joined them. "I deem this council concluded," continued Curunir. "With your permission, Lord Cirdan, we shall proceed at once to your stables, to select horses suitable for our journey. And again, perhaps you could arrange some provender for each of us?"

"The stables are near the East Gate, and should be easy to find," replied Cirdan. "You may each take a mount of your choice. I shall descend to my cellars, and gather some waybread and flasks of cordial for each of you, and then meet you at the stables within half an hour."

The Istari bowed, and Cirdan returned their bow. Then they each walked towards their own staff and hat, reclaiming them before exiting the council chamber and seeking out the stables of Mithlond.

Mithrandir was the last to leave the chamber, and as he was about to step through the doorway to the corridor beyond, Cirdan, who had observed silently the departure of the other Istari, touched him on the arm.

"A word, Mithrandir the Grey, if you please," whispered Cirdan. He ushered Mithrandir into an alcove, sitting off the corridor outside the council chamber, and waited until the other Istari were out of sight and earshot.

"Well?" asked Mithrandir, raising a bushy eyebrow, and fixing his bright blue eyes on the Elven lord. "I noticed your covert stares at me during the council, while the others were speaking. What is it you wish to say to me that is not fit for my kindred to hear?"

"You mentioned the powers that we Elves have at our service, which we can use to aid you against the Enemy," said Cirdan. "You were of course referring to the Three."

"I was indeed," said Mithrandir, frowning. "But it is not my place to counsel you on how to employ the Three Rings of the Elves in our cause. I know not even how the Elves have chosen to hide the Three, or which of you has power over them. You must use them, or refrain from using them, as you see fit."

"Even so," replied Cirdan, "while I cannot say how Elrond or Galadriel shall use them, beyond their current fashion, I for my part have already decided how best to employ that one of the Three which is in my care."

"In your care?" asked Mithrandir, looking surprised.

"Indeed. Ever since the One Ring was taken from the Black Hand of the Enemy, we have borne the Three on our own hands, for we need no longer fear that he can turn their power against us. However, not long after the Battle of Gorgoroth we began to use their power to conceal their sight from others. Thus we may bear them on our fingers in secret. See now?" asked Cirdan, holding up his right hand.

Mithandir gasped, staring at Cirdan's hand. For on Cirdan's third finger was now revealed an intricately wrought wring of gold, set with a brilliant red gem!

"Before our very eyes, and yet not even the mightiest of us saw it!" marveled Mithrandir. "Truly, the Three are even more powerful than I imagined, if they can blind the sight of the Istari."

"As you said, Mithrandir, we Elves are not without our own powers," smiled Cirdan.

"But why have you revealed this secret to me alone?" asked Mithrandir, looking sharply at the Elven-lord.

Cirdan frowned. "To be a Ringbearer is a heavy burden, Mithrandir," he whispered. "For nearly three-thousand years have I had charge of Narya, Ring of Fire. And I am very old, even by the reckoning of Elves – my endurance is not what it once was. Long have I sought relief from this burden, though I could not in good conscience place it on another of my own kindred; not least because no Elven Ringbearer can depart Middle Earth for the Undying Lands, as long as the One still exists, and could be used to exert mastery over the Three. So the Valar have told us in our dreams. To bear one of the Three is thus to remain bound to Middle Earth. I myself shall remain here regardless, until Sauron is annihilated, or I am slain. But I would not force another Elf to remain in Middle Earth, and deny him the right to depart for the Blessed Land when he wishes."

Cirdan paused. "But you and your kindred have come here for the express purpose of leading the fight against the Enemy, and I deem that this Ring of Power will not wear on you as it has begun to wear on me, and perhaps the Rings of Elrond and Galadriel wear on them. That is why, with your permission, I place this Ring in your keeping. Youb can use its power to fire hope and courage in the hearts of Elves and Men, and that may prove of use in the dark days that lie ahead, should the Enemy take form and assail us."

"You give this burden to me alone?" asked Mithrandir, his gaze so keen and sharp that Cirdan could barely endure it. "Why not to all the members of our Order, to use as we all see fit? Or why not to Curunir the White if it must be given to one only? He is our leader, not me."

Cirdan hesitated. "No Ring of Power can be used jointly," he said at length. "I could not give it to all of you, but must chose one alone, to use its power as he alone sees fit."

"Then I ask again, why not Curunir?" repeated Mithrandir insistently.

Cirdan was silent for awhile, but at length found the resolve to return the Grey Istari's gaze directly, and speak his mind: "I have dwelt on this Middle Earth for long enough that I flatter myself a better judge of character than most. I have no doubt that Curunir's might exceeds yours, as perhaps does his lore-mastery."

He paused for a moment, and then continued. "But might and lore-mastery are not synonymous with wisdom. I have seen and heard enough in the Council, and sensed enough through my own inner sight, to recognize that you, Mithrandir, are the wisest of all the Istari. I deem that of all the members of your Order, you are the most likely to use Vanya for good, and the least likely to fall into the path of error, knowingly abusing its power for your own ends, or unwittingly using its power in the service of the Enemy. Therefore I give this gift to you alone. And if you accept it, I must ask that you swear an oath keep it secret even from your kindred, hiding it from their sight, even as I hid it from yours."

For some moments, Mithrandir was silent. Then he nodded, and said "I will accept this gift with thanks, Lord Cirdan – though I do so for the sake of those it might aid, and not for my own. And I swear by the Valar that I will not reveal the secret."

Mithrandir frowned. "But be warned. Curunir the White has been blinded so far from seeing Narya. Yet his might and lore-mastery may be greater even than you perceive. Few things escape his keen mind or searching eye in the fullness of time. The day may well come when, at last, he pierces the veil, and sees that I bearNarya on my own hand. Curunir is very proud – and rightly so – but on account of his pride he will be sorely angered that the Elves did not choose him to bear a Ring of Power. Evil unlooked for may yet come from your choice to placeNarya in my keeping."

"Evil unlooked for may come from any choice, including the choice to keep this Ring for myself," replied Cirdan. "But your words only confirm in my mind that you, Mithrandir, are the one who should bearNarya in service against the Enemy."

"So be it," sighed Mithrandir. Taking his staff in his left had, he held out his right hand. Cirdan then removedNarya and slipped it onto Mithrandir's third finger.

Mithrandir's bushy eyebrows shot up, and he pursed his lips. "How curious," he remarked. "All at once I see many things that were veiled from my sight, while still seeing those things that are perhaps unknown to you. This is indeed a mighty gift. I only hope that I can use this Ring fittingly, and that you will not come to regret your choice."

"I have no doubt that I will not regret it," smiled Cirdan. "Now come. Let us go to the cellars, and you can help me fetch some provender. Then we can join your fellows at the stables, and tell them that I kept you behind so that you could help me bear the bundles of waybread and flasks of cordial that each of you shall need for your journey. My servants are after all asleep. And perhaps some flasks of water would help as well, through there are many clear streams in all the lands between here and the great river Anduin."

"Let us obtain what we may, and make haste," replied Mithrandir. "Already the Sun sets low in the West, and my kindred and I would fain pass the Tower Hills and enter into the realm of Arnor before nightfall."


	3. The City of the Stars

**III.) The City of the Stars**

For eighty days the White and Blue Istari, mounted on swift Elven-steeds, had traveled down the King's road to the South, passing through sparsely settled plains of Minhiraith and the empty lands of Enedwaith in the full bloom of summer. Now, their journey to the heart of Gondor was near its end. As the Sun climbed to its noon-time peak in the vault of the sky, casting a brilliant glare from the snowy shoulders of the White Mountains, they surmounted a crest in the dusty road, and paused for a moment to take in the scene before them.

The Great River Anduin ran its course southward through the center of a broad, open valley, full of tilled fields and meadows, orchards and olive groves, vineyards and gardens, villages and farmsteads. The valley was flanked by the fair White Mountains to the West, the green hills of Emyn Arnen to the South, and the grim Mountains of Shadow to the East. Beneath the shoulder of Mount Mindoluin, easternmost of the White Mountains, and nearest to the Istari, climbed seven-tiered Minas Anor - the Tower of the Setting Sun, strongest of all the fortresses built by the Numenorans-in-exile. Between each of its seven snow-white walls were banks of bright green grass, flanked by the occasional barracks or armory. On the seventh tier stood a cluster of marble-walled buildings, which formed the citadel of the fortress, and contained the Royal Archives of the realm of Gondor, the South Kingdom of Numenor-in-Exile. On the slopes of Mount Mindoluin behind the fortress clustered a number of small domes, which had held the mortal remains of the Kings of Gondor since the days of Anarion son of Elendil. It seemed a quiet place, almost devoid of life, harboring only the scrolls and dusty relics of a fabled past.

To the east, a narrow defile pierced the sheer wall of the pine-clad Mountains of Shadow - Imlad Ithil, the flowered Valley of the Moon, and site of Minas Ithil, the fair Tower of the Rising Moon. The beauty of Minas Ithil and its vale were storied in the songs of Men, even though they lay hard on the frontiers of the Black Land. On their journey southward, the Istari had learned from passing travelers that Men of Gondor who lived East of Anduin were of old a hardy breed. They were charged with keeping a watchful eye on the Land of Shadow and with guarding the land of Ithilien, the eastern marches of Gondor, against incursion by the servants of the Enemy. Yet it had been so long since the days of the Battle of Gorgoroth, and indeed so long since any enemy had dared to threaten the might of Gondor, that it was rumored the Men of Ithilien feared the Shadow from the East no more than they feared a bogey from a childrens' tale. Their land was peaceful and bountiful, and its people more restful than watchful.

Between these fortresses, and bisected by the Anduin, lay mighty Osgiliath, the capital and commercial center of Gondor. Even from this distance, some five leagues away, the soaring marble towers and domes of Osgiliath could be seen plainly. Amid the spires of the city, on an island in the middle of the river, stood one vast dome that soared high above the others; the fabled Dome of the Stars, which was modeled on the Throne Room of the Royal Palace of Armenelos in fallen Numenor. The Dome of the Stars had risen over the Throne of Gondor since the days of its construction by Isildur and Anarion, more than a thousand years before. It was 'tither that the Istari were bent, to seek the permission of the King of Gondor to consult the ancient scrolls and records of the Archives at Minas Anor, so that they might equip themselves with the knowledge they needed for their foray in the dimly-rumoured lands far to the east and south of Anduin.

"The tales of this land speak truly," said Alatar softly. "Here there dwells still an image of lost Numenor in its prime, in those far-off days when the noble Dunedain surpassed in power and lore even the High Elves of Eldamar. It is an image of beauty and splendour such as I had not hoped to see in Middle Earth."

"Yet only an image," cautioned Pallando. "Let us not be deceived by appearances. We have already seen, in our journey south, that much of the North Kingdom of Arnor has reverted to wastelands, and that its people have abandoned its great monuments to ruin, and retreated into stern castles and towers, consumed by their own petty differences and ambitions. The Men of this South Kingdom are not so far fallen from the glory of Numenor as their northern cousins, yet no longer are they Numenoreans truly. You have surely heard it said by those Elves but recently arrived in Eressea from Middle Earth that even the Gondor-men have long mixed their blood with that of lesser Men, and are increasingly but Men of the Twilight, rather than of the Light."

"The Numenoreans ceased to be of the Light before their fall," noted Curunir sadly. "By far the greater part of those people were consumed by Darkness, by the lies of Sauron and the worship of Morgoth, before their land was devoured by the Sea. These Gondor-men and their northern kindred are but the descendents of those who retained enough memory of the Light to flee from the Darkness, knowing that otherwise they would fall into ruin. Yet even the founders of Gondor, the sons of Elendil, never dwelt in Numenor during the days of its greatest nobility and wisdom. Men of the Twilight have the Numenoreans-in-Exile ever been, by my reckoning."

"No doubt you speak truly, Curunir," said Pallando. "Yet these Gondor-men, whatever their flaws may be, are still the best living examples of nobility and wisdom toward which other Men can aspire. Alatar and I must study carefully, not only the records of this land, but the character of its people themselves, as models we can use for the edification of the Easterlings and Southrons. It is through careful observation of these Western Men, and thoughtful application of what we learn, that we shall make our first tentative steps towards leading our own charges East of Anduin towards the light."

"And yet," cautioned Alatar, "we must bear in mind that even the greatest of Men, if the Elves speak truly of them, are ever wont to slide into folly and error. We may learn much from the Gondor-men, yet perhaps we should not rely too closely on their example. Our own wisdom and intuition are a great store upon which we can draw for the edification of the Easterlings and Southrons; and being of less lineage and power, perhaps the wild Men who are our charges shall prove more malleable than the Men of Gondor, who by all accounts have grown proud and willful. Indeed, I fear they might prove so proud, Curunir, that they will spurn your counsel, rather than embrace it as they should."

"You speak wisely, Alatar, at least in so far as the fallibility of the Gondor-men is concerned," acknowledged Curunir. "We saw but little of the Arnor-men as we rode south, and I must rely on Mithrandir and Aiwendil for a fuller assessment of their character, which I trust they shall gain during their journey on the long road east across the settled lands of the North Kingdom. But I am indeed very interested in taking my own measure of the Gondor-men. I can cast a spell on them, if I must, should I wish to bend their will to my own when an urgent matter is at issue. But to do so continually would be a great strain, even on my powers."

Curunir waved his hand expansively. "If these sons of Numenor are too proud to accept our wisdom willingly, than we must take counsel on the methods we can use to make them see reason. Perhaps their mortality is to our advantage; for if the fathers prove stubborn and willful, mayhap the sons, under my influence, shall in time prove more amenable to our guidance, so that the land in their care may blossom, and yet remain vigilant of the Shadow's return. As to the receptivity to our wisdom of the Gondor-men, versus that of those whose ancestors lived long under the Shadow – well, we shall see whose task proves the more difficult."

* * *

As the Istari approached the West Gate of Osgiliath, whose bronze doors lay ever open to travelers, they were caught up in the bustle of carts and herds, merchants and farmers, travelers and messengers who filled the road, hurrying on their business as they journeyed to or from the vast city. The day waxed hot under the summer Sun, and the air was hazy and full of dust kicked up by the many wayfarers and their steeds and carts. The Istari, for all their strange garb and mysterious air, attracted little attention from these staid burghers and stout yeomen, who were consumed with their own mundane affairs, and eager to escape the Sun's heat in the shade of a market stall or a tavern.

Yet the tall, steel-helmed guards who leaned against the marble walls beside the Gate, their sable tunics and shields embossed with the White Tree emblem of Gondor, were awakened from their half slumber by the sight of these curious Men on horseback. Though the presence of these guards at West Gate of Osgiliath was hardly more than a formality – the Gondor-men believed that no conceivable danger could ever come from West of Anduin, and indeed the bronze doors of the Western Gate were open day and night – still it was their duty to question those whose garb or speech suggested they were not solid citizens of Gondor. The elder of the two guards, his grey eyes regarding the Istari with a mixture of surprise and suspicion, waved his spear at them, ordering them to halt.

"You three, in the peaked hats!" he cried. "Stand aside from the road, so you do not block the path of the other travelers, and then be prepared to account for yourselves. Twenty years have I stood guard at this gate, and not once before have I seen men of your ilk, or thus garbed, or on steeds so sleek and fair. What are your names, what are your homelands, and what is your business in the City of the Stars?"

The Istari did not move aside, but sat on their mounts squarely in the middle of the road, blocking the other travelers in spite of the guard's command. The burghers and farmers whose commerce was thus interrupted began to murmur and whisper amongst themselves, as if they had only now noticed these three Men and their strangeness.

"My friend here gave you an order!" said the other, younger guard, doing his best to muster the most serious look his smooth face could command. "You were told to make an account of yourselves. Think not that our spears are merely for show. Their sharp points shall stand between you and Osgiliath, until you do as you are bid."

"I am Curunir the White," said the Man who sat mounted between his companions. Curunir then smiled graciously. "My friends here shall offer names to those who require them in due course. We are of the Order of the Istari, and seek an audience with your King forthwith." Curunir's two blue-robed companions remained silent, their faces expressionless and impassive.

The two guards laughed sharply, and continued smirking as they took the measure of these arrogant strangers. "Perhaps if the King of Arnor rode to the gates of this city and demanded an audience with his Majesty, it would be granted forthwith," said the elder guard. "But I doubt not the King has better things to do with his time than conduct audiences with the likes of you, however fine your steeds may be, and whatever rank you may hold in foreign parts. A citizen of Gondor might petition His Majesty for an audience, but an outlander has no right to do so."

"Aye," said the younger guard, glaring at Curunir. "You seem a mite too big for your britches, old man, if you think you can get an audience with His Majesty in a snap, or indeed at all. And I've never heard of Istari. For that matter, I haven't heard your business, _why _you want to see His Majesty. Nor have I heard your friends' names yet either. And you're not going anywhere until I do."

Curunir frowned briefly, his dark eyes deep and penetrating. But then he soon smiled again. Gesturing demurely with his staff, he said "Their names are no concern of yours, my young friend. And our business is our own. Will you not let us pass, and take counsel with your noble King?"

The crowd of travelers who stood in the road before and behind the three Istari fell silent for a moment. Then these busy citizens of Gondor glared at the guards, and one cried "Yes, let them through!" Another bellowed, "Aye, what's the hold up? Let them pass, and then let us pass and get on with our business!"

The guards stared uncertainly, blinking as if they were trying to see through a mist. Then the elder guard, speaking slowly, said "Of course, good sirs. We meant no offence. You may pass freely."

"Thank you kindly," said Curunir. His companions glanced at each other, and smiled knowingly. "If I may trouble you further," continued Curunir, "perhaps your young friend here could escort us directly to the Dome of the Stars, so that we may save time that would otherwise be spent navigating the streets of this vast city?"

"Yes, of course," said the Man. "Boy!" he said, turning to his comrade. "Don't just stand there, like a lump on a log. Guide these gentlemen where they will!"

The younger guard blinked stupidly for a moment, but then, nodding slowly, he gestured to the Istari to follow, and led the way through the Gate into the teeming streets of the city.

* * *

The guard led the three Istari through the stone-flagged, arrow-straight roads of Osgiliath, past many houses and towers of elegantly carved white marble, and many silver and golden statues of the fabled Kings and prominent lords of Gondor. So they came at length to the bustling Great Market, full of wooden, canvas-roofed stalls manned by colourfully-garbed merchants hawking all manner of wares; fresh meats, fruits and vegetables from the lands about the city, salted fish from the coast beyond Pelargir, rich wines from Dorwinion, Dwarvish toys and blades from the North; strange fruits and pungent spices from distant lands. Their passage through the narrow alleys of the crowded market took the best part of an hour, and along the way they attracted the curious stares of some of the more idle citizens who spent their days there exchanging gossip. Then, at last, Istari came to the broad granite bridge supported by many arches that spanned the Anduin, whose dark blue, swift-flowing waters the Istari now glimpsed from up close for the first time.

Across the bridge lay the eastern half of Osgiliath, which from afar looked much the same as the western shore. Midstream in the river, spanned by the bridge, sat a long, narrow island, bordered by tall trees of Oak and Beech. From the center of the island arose the mighty dome of smooth white marble they had seen from afar; the Dome of the Stars, its peak some two-hundred feet above the level of the river, its base mounted on a square pedestal flanked by many fluted columns; the Palace and Throne Room at Osgiliath of the King of Gondor. Surmounting the Dome was a tall spire, to which was attached a long, flowing black banner beaing the Arms of the Royal House of Gondor; the White Tree, surrounded by seven stars, and surmounted by a crown. Smaller domes and outbuildings surrounded the central dome, housing the King's apartments, and those of his guards and servants.

"No wall surrounds the Palace," observed Alatar, "though I espy some dozen or so guards on the steps that lead up to its gate. The Gondor-men are indeed sure of their might, if their King thinks he requires no stronger protection against peril."

"Why should they not be sure of themselves?" asked Pallando. "It is a thousand years since any enemy menaced this city, and that must surely seem a long span of time indeed in the eyes of Men."

"There are many types of peril," offered Curunir. "Guards are of more use against some dangers than others. But if their mettle is not greater than that of yon guard who guides us hence, we shall have no difficulty obtaining an audience with His Majesty."

The Istari crossed the western span of the bridge to the island, and turned to the right, where a broad, paved courtyard flanked by marble-walled stables stood before the Palace steps. They passed an onyx obelisk some ten feet in height, engraved in chalcedony with the White Tree symbol of Gondor, which seemed to mark the boundary between the road and the courtyard. When they had ridden some fifty feet past the obelisk, Curunir dismounted, followed by Alatar and Pallando, and said to the guard "You have done well in guiding us hence, young sir. Take our horses and place them in the care of the stable-hands. Then you are free to return to your post by the Western Gate."

"As you wish, my lord," murmured the guard drowsily. For a moment he stared dully at the Elven-steeds, perhaps wondering how to lead horses that had no reins or bridles – for the Elves rode all their steeds bareback. But the horses, as if they knew their task better than him, neighed softly and trotted toward the stables themselves, while he followed in their wake.

Meanwhile, the three Istari strode across the broad courtyard, their staves clacking on the ground with each step as they stared upward at the magnificent dome that loomed above them, and the vast silvered doors, polished to a mirror-sheen, that led to the Throne Room within. Running up to those doors was a flight of two-dozen marble steps, flanking the entire breadth of the Palace, upon which stood a dozen soldiers clad in more elaborate armour and richer cloth than those who guarded the West Gate of the city, their shields and tunics bearing the Royal Arms rather than the symbol of the White Tree alone. These were members of the Royal Household Guard of Osgiliath. Two stood arms-length from each other at the base of the stairs; two at the top, in front of the doors, and four pairs at intervals up the steps. All of the guards stood at attention, proudly holding their spears straight in the air with their right arms, while resting their left hands on the tops of their rectangular shields, whose bases sat upon the ground.

As the Istari approached, the guards, who had been watching them keenly, suddenly crouched, took up of their shields, and then stood in a defensive posture, their spear-points aimed at these strange trespassers. A clear horn sounded from one of the lesser buildings near the Palace, and within moments some four-score guards rushed from a barracks that sat off the courtyard to the right of the Istari, their steel-shod boots clanging on the stones of the courtyard as they formed rows, holding up their shields, their spears aimed at the intruders in like fashion to the guards on the steps.

"HALT!" cried a booming voice, as a very large guard bearing a white feather on the peak of his silvered helm – no doubt an officer – strode from behind the phalanx of guardsmen towards the Istari. He bore no spear or shield, but his long, keen-edged sword was unsheathed, and as he approached them he pointed it at them meaningfully.

The three Istari stood still. "It appears the Gondor-men are not as lax as we had thought," said Pallando wryly.

Curunir sighed. "Indeed. And though it may prove necessary, I am loath to once again bind Men to my will through spellcasting, when reason should suffice."

"Perhaps you need not exert yourself again so soon, my friend," offered Alatar. "Allow Pallando and I to deal with these guards in our own fashion."

"As you wish," smiled Curunir. "I shall be most interested to see this display of your skill."

"NO talking amongst yourselves!" said the officer, who now stood but a few feet in front of them, still holding his sword-point towards them in most unwelcoming fashion. He glared at them with cold blue eyes, his grey-tinged sable hair showing from beneath his helm. The Istari noted that this guard, like those at the gate, seemed of taller stature and graver mien than the civilians who thronged the city streets – perhaps those in whom the blood of Numenor was stronger were more inclined to a career in the service of the King than to a life of commerce or husbandry.

"I am Maedhros, Officer of the Watch," said the Man. "Know that you trespass on the property of Ciryandil, King of Gondor. No Man is permitted to set foot off the bridge and road that span the Anduin into this courtyard unless he is in the King's service, or has arranged an audience with him."

"It is an audience with your mighty King that we seek, o Maedhros the nobly-named," said Alatar graciously, doffing his peaked hat and bowing deeply.

"Fine words won't gain you an audience with His Majesty," said Maedhros sternly. "If you wish to speak with the King – and can prove that you are citizens of Gondor, which by your strange garb, not to mention your outlandish accent, I very much doubt – then you must go to the chambers of the King's Steward, in yon tower on the western bank of Anduin nigh to the market, and leave with him a petition for a Royal Audience."

"Kind sir," said Pallando, likewise doffing his hat and bowing. "Time is pressing on us, and our words are for your King's ear alone. Are there not some other means…"

"No, there are not!" said Maedhros firmly. "Now, strangers, turn about-face and get you gone from this courtyard forthwith. Return not hither without a scroll sealed by the Steward, granting you an audience with His Majesty."

"I doubt you shall be able to escort us from this courtyard yourself, my friend," smiled Pallando, gesturing with his staff. "It appears you have many more visitors who shall occupy your efforts."

"What's that?" cried Maedhros. Turning his head warily, he suddenly gasped in astonishment. For from behind the Palace, and into the courtyard, came more than a hundred mummers and jesters in colourful garb! Like men and women they seemed, young and spry, dodging and weaving between the rows of guards, who gaped at them in astonishment. Yet they glimmered like rainbows in the mist, and when the guards sought to block their paths with spears, the strange figures passed right through them!

"Ghosts! Spirits of the Dead!" cried one of the guards, dropping his spear and shield in horror.

"Nay, an enchantment! We are bewitched!" shouted another.

"Stop them, you fools!" shouted Maedhros. "'Tis naught but a bunch of knaves, who must have slipped into the courtyard whilst we were distracted by yon strangers. Arrest them at once!"

But it was too late for Maedhros to impose order; chaos had already erupted amongst his men. Some sought to fulfill his commands, chasing after the illusive figures, who slipped between their grasp, or right through their very arms, laughing and taunting them as they led them ever farther from the Palace into the courtyard and the road beyond. Others, overcome by fear of the seeming spectres who had suddenly invaded the courtyard, dropped their weapons and ran for their barracks, calling upon the Valar to save them. After some minutes, the courtyard and the steps of the Palace were empty of guards.

Curunir smiled approvingly at Pallando, and the three Istari continued their walk across the courtyard, and then ascended the steps up to the Palace. At the top of the stairs and guarding they found Maedhros, who stood with his back pressed against the silvered doors, baring his sword at the Istari.

"Halt, I say!" cried Maedhros, mixed fear and resolve showing on his grim face. "I know not what manner of sorcerers you are, nor what devilry you have conjured up to disperse my Men. But you shall go no further! Back, or you shall taste cold steel!"

"Cold steel?" asked Alatar. "But that is not a sword you hold in your hands." He

gestured with his staff, feigning alarm. "Look!"

Maedhros looked at his sword. To his horror, it transformed before his eyes into a huge serpent! Like one of the deadly vipers of Far Harad it was, its scales green as emeralds, its yellow eyes glistening, its fangs dripping with steaming venom. It hissed and lunged at the unfortunate Maedhros, who screamed, and then ran down the stairs for dear life, chased it seemed by the deadly beast, which slithered after him with great speed.

"Well done!" laughed Curunir, leaning on his ebon staff to support himself in his merriment. "Well done indeed! You exceed yourself, my friends!"

"It involved naught but bending light, to create the illusion of solid forms," smiled Pallando.

"And leading Men to see with their waking eyes the phantasms the lie hidden within their own minds," said Alatar. He glanced down at the sword of Maedhros, which still lay on the porch where he had dropped it in his panic. "They shall regain their wits within a few hours, the strong-willed amongst them perhaps sooner than that."

"Come then," said Curunir. "Let us pay a visit to the King, before his minions return." He tapped the great silvered doors with his staff, and they opened inward, revealing a broad, arched corridor of smooth marble that led into a vast, dark chamber visible beyond.

The three Istari walked down the corridor, its cool air offering a welcome respite from the heat of the courtyard. At length they stood under an archway that opened on a broad circular room, some two-hundred feet across. The room was fashioned entirely of marble, smooth and white. Yet the dome above, which soared nearly two-hundred feet above the polished floor, had been painted a deep blue, like the evening sky. Hundreds of narrow holes had been drilled into the dome, in a pattern corresponding to the constellations of the stars as they were seen from the north of Middle Earth on a Midsummer's Day over a thousand years before. Each hole was occupied by a gemstone, most often clear, sometimes amber, sometimes rose, corresponding with the colour of the star that it represented. As the sunlight shone through the gems, they glowed as if they were stars themselves.

"It is indeed a beautiful sight," whispered Alatar softly, as they stood at the threshold, gazing upward. "In truth it surpasses the wonder of the Elven-towers that we saw at Mithlond."

"Yet this the most noble of the Gondor-men have in common with the Elves," said Pallando, "that their minds seem to dwell in the past, strange though such a trait seems amongst mortals. It is said this dome itself was made in homage to the even mightier dome that once crowned the Throne Room of Armenelos in Numenor, long ago. The forefathers of these Men expended great labour to recall to life this fragment of their glorious past, and I will not gainsay that. Yet little thought do the Men of today seem to give to the future."

"Indeed," said Curunir. "The minds of these Men seem occupied either with ancient history, or the mundane affairs of the present day, depending on their greater or lesser degree of nobility. I do not sense any trace of fear amongst these Men that the Shadow may someday return, that it is not annihilated, but merely slumbers, or bides its time. I am keen to see if King Ciryandil is at all aware of the threat. If not, then indeed we will have our work cut out for us."

"Or at least you shall," said Alatar. "Our own concern is with the Easterlings and Southrons. We shall have to leave the Gondor-men in your capable hands."

"And I say again, we shall see whose task is the greater challenge," frowned Curunir. "Yet we cannot afford to waste time here. We must see the King, and then set to work in the Royal Archives. Come!"

Curunir stepped through the archway and into the Throne Room, followed by Alatar and Pallando. The Istari withdrew their gaze from the Dome of the Stars, and took in the plan of the room about them. Its walls devoid of ornament, but for the plain, heavy marble thrones mounted on seven steps of marble at the southern end of the room, opposite the Istari. On the wall above the eastern throne was set a disk of burnished silver, representing the Moon, and above the western throne was a disk of gold, representing the Sun. These thrones were not empty, for in each was a likeness carved in marble of one of the sons of Elendil; the bearded likeness of Isildur sat beneath the Moon-throne, and an image of smooth-faced Anarion sat beneath the Sun-throne, recalling the far off days when these Men of legend had sat beside each other the Throne Room of Osgiliath, affirming their status as Co-regents of Gondor under the sovereignty of High King Elendil in the North. These thrones were flanked by silver doors, set into the wall of the chamber, which led into the private chambers of the King. Beside each door stood a silver brazier, which could be used to illuminate the room at night when the light of the gemstars set in the roof failed.

At the foot of the steps beneath the thrones of Isildur and Anarion was seated a tall throne of silver, its high back carved with the likeness of a tree in flower. This design was a likeness of that White Tree, descendent of Nimloth the Fair, that still grew amid the High Court of Minas Anor, and which was the symbol of the heirs of Elendil and the realms of Numenor-in-Exile. This had been the throne of the Kings of Gondor, when they held court at Osgiliath (as they most often did) since the days of Meneldil son of Anarion.

This throne was also occupied, but by a living, breathing Man. As the Istari strode across

the unadorned marble floor, their staffs clacking on its hard surface, Ciryandil, King of Gondor, came clearly into view. He was garbed in unadorned robes of grey wool, and over his shoulders was draped a sable cloak, held about his neck by a golden chain. Upon the grey tresses of his hair sat a silver crown, in the center of which was mounted a brilliant gemstone, and from the sides of which grew the white wings like those of some great seabird. Grey also was his trimmed beard, and even his pale skin seemed nearly grey, as if it had been many hears since it had felt the light of the Sun. His eyes could not clearly be discerned, for they stared downward as he sat, hands folded on his lap, seemingly deep in contemplation.

Suddenly he looked up at his unexpected visitors, his dark eyebrows rising in surprise, and the Istari could see that his eyes were the clear grey of the Sea under a winter sky. He stared wonderingly at them as they strode across the room, stopping some twenty feet short of his throne. The three Istari removed their hats, bowed, and then stared up at the aged King. Curunir appeared about to speak, but King Ciryandil was the first to utter words.

"Well!" he said, in a soft voice that seemed vaguely hoarse, as if from lack of use. "No visitors were scheduled to appear before me this day. I was sitting here alone and in contemplation, as I often do during the hours of sunlight, and yet now I find my reverie disturbed by you three lords – for you have a lordly air about you, whatever station you may occupy in truth. Yet it seems not meet that you should disturb me, here in the heart of my realm, without let or leave. I wonder greatly how you managed to enter this hallowed chamber, which is well-guarded – or so Captain Maedhros has oft assured me. Shall I summon him and his guards now to my aid, or are you prepared to account for yourselves and your presence here?"

"A thousand pardons, Your Majesty," replied Curunir, who bowed again, before returning his dark gaze to the King of Gondor. "Our presence is indeed unexpected, and for that we apologize. I fear your guards are – shall we say, otherwise engaged – so it was not difficult for us gain entrance to this marvelous room, and stand under its fabled Dome of the Stars."

"Otherwise engaged?" asked Ciryandil, frowning. "The guards of the Palace Court have not been caught napping since the days of Meneldil son of Anarion. Heads may roll, if any treachery is afoot; and if mere negligence is at fault more than one proud Officer of the Watch may find himself relieved of his command. But come sir, you have not yet stated your name, or your business. I leave your companions to speak for themselves."

"As for my name, it is Curunir the White. I am the head of the Order of the Istari, of which you doubtless have not yet heard, though I trust in time you shall come to know it well. We are from a distant land, far to the north and west of here. My business is the well-being of all Men; though a more specific task, for which I require the leave of your Majesty, draws me to Gondor."

"Curunir," said Ciryandil, repeating the name doubtfully. "Does that not signify "Man of Skill", in the Sindarin tongue of the Grey Elves? Oft a Man of Gondor will take an Elvish name, yet whether he does or no he still bears the name given to him by his sire in our own Common Tongue. Have you no other name, then?"

"Curunir must suffice, my liege," replied the White Istari.

"Is that so? And then there is the name of your Order, Is-dari," continued Ciryandil. "Indeed I have not heard of it, and it remains to be seen if I wish to. Yet that is a strange name, one I daresay is from the Quenya speech of the High Elves of the West, which is little known and even less used in Middle Earth. Merely to pronounce the words of Quenya is difficult, in the dialect of our South Kingdom. Wizards I shall call you, if no other name will suffice. At least that name flows smoothly across my tongue."

"Then Wizards we are," smiled Curunir.

"And as for your business," said Ciryandil, "the well-being of all Men is of no concern to me. I am charged by law only with the welfare of the Men of Gondor, and perhaps by blood with regard for the well-being of our cousins in Arnor to the North. Other Men must mind their own affairs, and would do well not to molest the lands or people of Numenor-in-Exile. But before I learn what errand has led you here, the success of which requires my leave, I wish to hear the names of your two silent companions."

"With regret, Your Majesty," they replied together, "we have not taken names among the Men of the West, for our business lies elsewhere. But you may refer to us as the Blue Wizards, if you will."

"What, are you of one mind and voice?" asked the King. "And why should I not enquire as to your own proper names?"

"Patience, great King," smiled Curunir, gesturing demurely. "They mean not to offend you. You may give them whatever names it pleases you, though they shall tarry in Gondor but a brief time before they depart, and once they have gone it is not likely that you shall see them again."

"I cannot say I would sorrow at that," frowned the King, his grey eyes narrowing, "for never in all the years since I assumed the throne have I received supplicants who offered such a reply when I asked them a plain question. But the Blue Wizards they shall remain, if they will give no other account of themselves. You say you are the head of your Order, Curunir, so you must have leave to speak on their behalf. I will put my question to you alone; what to you seek in the realm of Gondor?"

"Understand, Your Majesty," replied Curunir, "we are loremasters of the highest degree. This we can prove to you, by any means that you so desire. But while there are many things far off that are known to us, and are hidden from other Men, yet some things nearby may be withheld from our sight." Curunir paused, adopting a pensive air. "To put it plainly, Your Majesty, and meaning no insult to your royal dignity, we would be most gratified if you would permit us access to the Royal Archives at Minas Anor. We wish only to study them, for perhaps several years, and then with your permission we shall take your leave of this land."

"I daresay you might," replied Ciryandil, a wry smile upon his face. "And all I need do to be rid of you is grant you access to the inmost mysteries of Gondor, to which none but my Royal House, and our stewards, and our archivists sworn to secrecy, have ever been privy? Perhaps you also wish me to grant you a palace or two, and a mountain of gold from my treasury, and to place one of my armies at your command? For I would sooner do all of those things than I would put at the disposal of three foreigners the most precious heirloom of Gondor – the knowledge and wisdom of my thrice-renowned ancestors of exalted Numenor."

"I understand your reluctance, Your Majesty," frowned Curunir, his dark eyes flashing for a moment before they resumed their placid air. "But our researches are not merely for our own benefit. They are first and foremost to your benefit, and that of your House, and your subjects, and all the realm of Gondor, and yea Arnor beyond. For you stand in grave peril, though it seems you know it not."

"Indeed I am in peril, if you three Wizards can penetrate my inner sanctum unchallenged by my guards," replied the King.

"You are in no peril from us, Your Majesty," replied Curunir. "We mean you no harm; indeed, we mean you much good, and know many wondrous secrets, unguessed at even by the Numenoreans of old, which we can add to the store of knowledge found in your Archives in exchange for access to them."

The King's eyebrows shot up in disbelief at this boast, but Curunir continued, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. "No, it is not from we three Wizards that you are in peril, your Majesty. It is from that Doom which has ever been the bane of the Gondor-men – the Shadow from the East."

"The Shadow?" replied Ciryandil hoarsely. "I know not now whether to laugh or cry at your folly. The Shadow from the East, say you? Know you not that the Nameless One was defeated by my kinsman, the legendary Isildur, a thousand years ago? Even the unlettered peasants from the farthest marches of Gondor have heard that tale."

"Folly?" replied Curunir, his voice now louder, deep and resonant. "Nay, I fear it is not we Wizards who are mired in folly, but the Men of Gondor and even their proud King, if you think the Shadow is no longer your concern. Defeated, say you? So it was. And yet the Shadow was not destroyed. Long it has slumbered, and yet mayhap not for much longer. It may be the first stirrings of its awakening are already felt, beyond the boundaries of your land. Woe to the Men of Gondor, and yea to all Men, if they are not prepared when it wakens fully, seething with malice, burning with vindictiveness, ready once again to make war against all those who oppose it, lusting to rule this Middle Earth until the Breaking of the World at the End of Time."

"The Shadow was defeated," replied Ciryandil coldly. He stood up from his throne, tall and grave now, and pointed a long finger down toward Curunir. "It was defeated, and I deem it was destroyed entirely. The triumph of Isildur the Thrice-Renowned shall not be gainsaid. And I shall not listen to any more of your idle words, Wizard."

"_You shall listen, Ciryandil of the House of Anarion!"_ cried Curunir, his dark eyes flashing fiercely, his deep voice booming across the chamber, echoing far down the corridor beyond, as he pointed his ebon staff at the King. "You shall listen, and you shall learn! For it is clear to my sight that the flame of wisdom ebbs low in Gondor, and it is my duty to rekindle it. Be seated, and harken to me!"

Ciryandil shrank back in amazement at the wrath of Curunir, whose form seemed for a moment to blaze with a brilliant white light that stunned his own mortal senses, and left him speechless and silent. Trembling, the King lowered himself onto his silver throne, and sat quietly, his hands folded, as if he were an erring pupil who had been scolded by a firm but just schoolmaster.

As the Blue Wizards stared intently at the King, leaning on their crystal staffs, Curunir smiled again, and resumed his former air of polite gravity. "Do not take offence at my harsh words, Your Majesty," he said, his voice now rich and mellow. "But my kindred and I have many tasks, and first and foremost is to ensure that the Men of Gondor understand the threat, so that they may understand the need to lend us aid in our struggle on behalf of Men against the wiles of the Enemy. I say to you again; Sauron was defeated, not destroyed. Have you not heard of Isildur's Bane?"

"I have," whispered the King, who now appeared thoroughly chastened, and attentive to the words of the White Wizard.

"Know you not what it signifies?"

"A weapon of the Enemy," replied the King. "Long ago did Isildur claim it from him, blood price for the deaths of Elendil and Anarion. The most learned of our scholars say that it was…"

"_The _weapon of the Enemy," replied Curunir. "We will not name it openly here, so close to the frontiers of the Black Land. Know you its fate?"

"Verily," replied Ciryandil, "as I said, it was taken by Isildur in blood price. It then brought about his doom, or so say the rumours that reached us from the North. Long has it been lost."

"Yet this thing was not destroyed," said Curunir darkly. "Know you not that it was shaped by the Enemy, forged by his own hand? That it was infused with his dark spirit, with the essence of his power?"

"So it is said," replied the King.

"Then think you," chided Curunir, "so that your understanding of this matter may surpass Isildur's. How can the Enemy have been destroyed, when that which was the essence of his power survived? You know from ancient tales that many are the cataclysms that

Sauron the Accursed escaped, and that he has taken new forms again and again. Why then should this time be different? Why then should he not return?"

Ciryandil frowned deeply. At length he replied "There is wisdom in what you say, Curunir the White. The greatest of our loremasters have not foretold such a thing; yet neither have they written anything that gainsays your words. It would be the most fearsome news received in Gondor for a thousand years, should the Enemy return in truth. Yet there has been no word nor rumour of him in all that time. What cause have we to believe that he awakens now, after a long slumber?"

"He may not awaken fully for some time, your Majesty," smiled Curunir, pleased that the King at last accepted the essential truth of his words, and now merely sought his counsel on the particulars. "Not in your lifetime, and hopefully not for many lifetimes of Men. But as for rumours that he begins to stir; indeed, there are rumours in this day and age, though mayhap they have not reached your ears here in the heart of fair Osgiliath. The Elves at least could tell you something of them."

"Indeed?" asked the King, a trace of his pride returning to his manner. "Yet the Elves have grown apart from us, and ever since the defeat of the Enemy and the dissolution of the Last Alliance we have been sundered from them. A strange folk they appear to many Men of my race, notwithstanding the ties of blood and friendship that long bound them to us in the days of yore."

"However the Elves may appear to your eyes, o King," replied Curunir, "they see many things hidden from the sight of Men. Still, these rumours of the Shadow's return could be investigated by your own scouts and agents, if you dispatched them for the purpose. It is said that in the Greenwood, for instance, darkness and a pall of fear have begun to spread across that land, and that Orcs and Wargs and giant Spiders and other fell beasts begin to infest the eaves of the forest. The realm of the Elven-King Thranduil has been much troubled by these evils of late."

"And you think that the spread of these beasts heralds the return of the Enemy?" asked the King.

"Not his return as such, but the first stirrings of it," corrected Curunir. "Much as the darkening of the sky with heavy clouds heralds an approaching storm long before it vents its fury. And I know not for certain whether the events in the Greenwood signal the return of the Enemy, though I have sent two of our Order, whom you have not yet seen, to scour the Greenwood for signs and draw their own conclusions. Yet there may also be other portents."

"Such as?" asked the King.

"Bearing in mind that the Enemy has long been devious, and conducts his war on many fronts, and many ways," cautioned Curunir, "consider then the decline of the North Kingdom of Arnor. Gondor waxes strong, Men say. Yet the decline of your sister Kingdom of Arnor has been visible even in your own time. It is falling into pieces, as King Beleg has been reduced in authority and stature by his noble kinsmen, who scramble to increase their wealth and power in their own petty landholdings. Should not the decline of one of the two halves of Numenor-in-Exile be of the gravest concern to you? For to set the Men of the West against themselves, and undermine their realms, has ever been amongst the foremost goals of the Enemy."

Ciryandil looked troubled, but remained silent.

"And have you heard no other rumours of discord in these times?" asked Curunir.

"We have," replied Ciryandil grimly. "The cruel Haradrim of the South, who have long been docile, have just this year dared to menace our garrison at Umbar, the southernmost city under our sway, which has long paid tribute to us. Our army put paid to the Haradrim, yet their boldness is troubling. And the Men of Umbar themselves, who are in some part akin to us, are not to be trusted; long ago they served the Enemy, and to this day they plot and scheme against us, seeking to cheat us and stir up trouble and dissension whenever they may. They have grown more restive of late; there are even rumours that they plan to rebel, and throw off the yoke of Gondor so that they may reforge their old alliance with the Haradrim, and once again menace the coastlands of Gondor with their Corsair ships, as they did during the wars of the Last Alliance."

The Wizards nodded sagely. Ciryandil fell silent again, for some time, and then at length spoke his mind:

"When I reflect on this matter, Curunir, I conclude that the dark prospect you have raised may be the thread that connects these troubles. And if that is so, it is ill news indeed. Yet you say that you wish to search the Royal Archives. Do you believe you would find information there that may help you to interpret these portents?"

"Indeed I do," replied Curunir. "And also to learn much of the Enemy and his ways, such as was known to your noble ancestors when they fought against him in Numenor as well as Middle Earth."

"And as for our part," said the Blue Wizards, "we would also learn what we might of the Easterlings and Southrons, so that we may work to free them from the influence of the Enemy, and teach them to live in peace with each other and the Men of the West."

"I can tell you all you need to know of the Easterlings and Southrons, my blue friends," said the King, his grey eyes flashing fiercely. "They are savages, fit only for the gallows." The Blue Wizards frowned, but said nothing in reply.

"Very well," said Ciryandil, "this is my decree. You, Curunir, shall have leave to access the Royal Archives of Minas Anor when you wish, as long as I am satisfied that your researches are to the benefit of Gondor. And you, the Blue Wizards, may examine the Archives alongside Curunir, provided that I have your word to assist his researches on the Enemy and his ways, and not merely to garner such tidbits as you can find about the savages who live beyond our borders."

"You have our word," the Blue Wizards replied.

"Then so be it," said the King. "And you shall all receive at Minas Anor such lodgings and board as are suitable for your station as loremasters and scholars of reknown. I shall summon my scribe to present you with a sealed scroll that will grant you access to Minas Anor and its Archives, which I shall leave in your safekeeping, Curunir. It shall note the Blue Wizards may have such access when accompanied by you. Also I will present the three of you with other scrolls that will grant each of you free passage and safe conduct throughout all lands under the authority of Gondor, from Andrast to the Sea of Rhun, and from the River Limlight to the harbour of Umbar."

"Your Majesty is as generous as he is wise," said the Wizards together, bowing yet again.

"And fear not," continued Curunir. "We shall put all of the knowledge we find in your records to good use. And we shall even leave behind some of our own knowledge, as I promised before, for the edification of yourself and your foremost servants."

"I look forward to seeing these examples of your own lore," said Ciryandil. "I would ask only that you speak no word of these matters to other Men. I would not have my subjects troubled by dark fears, and portents beyond their ken, not as long as the Enemy remains discarnate and is not fully awakened. For there is nothing they could do to stay his return, and ill rumours would serve no purpose other than to chill their hearts and dampen their spirits. Report the results of your researches to me, or to my Steward if I am not available."

"It shall be as you wish, Your Majesty," replied Curunir.

"Now, where is that dratted scribe?" continued the King. "I had thought that he and the other servants would be attracted by our raised voices of some minutes ago. But, the walls and doors of this chamber are indeed thick, and perhaps none of our conversation was overheard. To think that I might have to search the grounds for him myself! Such is the folly of old age, to seek solitude when prudence would dictate I never be far from my servants…"

While the King set about searching for his scribe, the Wizards stared at each other. Curunir seemed pleased, but Alatar and Pallando shook their heads and were troubled.

* * *

"You spoke truly, Curunir," said Pallando, as he and the other Wizards passed through the third gate of Minas Anor and rode across the grassy sward; four more gates and as many steep climbs to go before they reached the High Court and the buildings that housed the Royal Archives.

"Do I not always speak truly?" smiled Curunir. "But to which truth are you referring?

"Who would have the more difficult task," said Pallando. "I had thought that the Gondor-men would prove a model for the edification of the Easterlings and Southrons. Alatar felt that they might be a doubtful model, and indeed might be too proud for you to lead them along the path of truth themselves, whereas the wild Men were a blank slate on which we could write our wisdom. Yet we both agreed that, whatever the means, in the end our mission to the wild Men would succeed. But now that I have seen Men at their best – and still they are mired in ignorance and folly, until corrected – I begin to fear whether the Men of the East and South shall prove redeemable."

"I fear it myself,", said Alatar. "Though it has been long since the Enemy walked amongst them. We must have faith that we are able to turn them towards the light; perhaps we can even teach them a bit of humility amid the wonders of the world, so that they do not fall into the arrogance and inflexibility of the Gondor-men."

"The Gondor-men have much to be said for them," replied Curunir. "Their hearts are in the right place. All they need is good counsel and a firm hand. But, as you fear, it may well prove that those whose ancestors long dwelt under the Shadow from the East are less pliable to our cause than even the most stubborn Men of Gondor."

"I think Mithrandir is in error on this matter," said Alatar. "During our journey across the Sea, he oft stated the view that Men should only be offered guidance informed by our wisdom, and then should be left freely to choose their own course, for good or ill. 'For even the very wise cannot see all ends,' he would say, 'and it would be folly to think that we alone can lead Men along the path that is best for them.' Yet I now think that surely it would be folly if we subscribed to his views. If you had not been forceful with Ciryandil back at Osgiliath, Curunir, we would be wandering round the marketplace, wondering what to do next, and the threat of the Enemy's return still would not be taken seriously by the King. You have recognized all along that we would need a firm hand to deal with mortals."

"Mithrandir surely understands little of Men," replied Curunir. "Perhaps in time he will learn something of them, and alter his views. Or perhaps not. It would no doubt be for the best if Mithrandir sticks to the Elves, and Aiwendil to his bird-taming, while the three of us take the lead in dealing with the Men of the West, the East and the South."

The three Wizards then fell silent for awhile, until at last they had completed their long climb, and stood before the bronze gate of the seventh level. They dismounted their Elven-steeds – which the guards at the lower gate had told them were not permitted on the seventh level – and as several brown-tunic'd stable hands led their mounts away, they approached the guards at the gate.

Curunir stepped forth, and presented the scroll of marque he had received from Ciryandil to the guards. After examining it closely, and with a few suspicious glances at their strangely garbed visitors, they opened the gate and permitted the three Wizards to pass.

Thus Curunir, Alatar and Pallando came at last to the High Court, which stood upon the vast, flat-topped outcropping of rock that jutted out from the shoulders of Mount Mindoluin like the prow of a mighty ship. This court was covered with green grass, and buttressed on its western end by several graceful buildings and domes, which formed the Citadel of Minas Anor, and the royal residence of the King on those summer days when Ciryandil wished to escape the heat of the plains and breathe in the cool, fresh air of the White Mountains. They also contained the entrances to the Royal Archives, which long ago had been stored in chambers delved deep into the rock of the mountain, secure against fire, mischance and theft.

Before the Citadel lay the Fountain Court, and amid the bubbling of its crystal waters rose the White Tree of Minas Anor, grandchild of Nimloth the Fair. It had been planted by Isildur himself a thousand years before from a seed of the Ithil Tree, which itself had been the child of Nimloth, and which like Nimloth had fallen to the Enemy. Nimloth, which had sat amid the Palace Gardens of Armenelos in Numenor, was the child of the tree Celeborn upon Tol Eressea, and the grandchild of Galathilion that rose from its court in Tirion the Fair, city of the Noldorin Elves in mystic Valinor. And so this Anor Tree, which bore fruit and flower under the summer Sun, was a living link between the Men of Gondor and the Undying Lands, a reminder that the were the descendents of the Faithful Ones of Numenor who had served the Valar and maintained friendship with the Elves.

Four tall guardsmen stood at the four cardinal points around the White Tree. These Guards of the Fountain Court, unlike the others the Wizards had seen, bore on their black tunics and shields the entire device of the Royal House of Gondor – seven stars surrounding the White Tree, surmounted by a crown – and they wore silvered helms upon which were mounted the wings of sea-birds, identical in type to those attached to the King's crown. They stood proudly, their long spears held at attention, and stared impassively into space, without acknowledging the strange visitors who walked towards them.

As the Wizards approached the White Tree, the stopped for a moment, taking in its beauty and its wondrous fragrance that perfumed the crisp mountain air.

"It is not long since we departed the lamplight quays of Avallone," sighed Alatar. "And yet already the Undying Lands grow dim within my memory. It is as if this mortal body, dwelling within these mortal lands, cannot contain a clear vision of such grace and beauty as is found in Valinor. Yet here we see an image and a reminder of what we have left behind. I hope our sacrifice, our turning our backs on Valinor to venture into the darkness of Middle Earth, shall not prove in vain."

"Long will it be before we ever see the like of this fair tree again, once we set out East of Anduin," said Pallando. "You and I, Alatar, have taken oath and bond to spend our days in the wildest reaches of Middle Earth, until the Enemy at last meets his doom. And that may not be for an age and an age, if indeed it ever comes to pass. We should draw what solace we can from our time at Minas Anor."

"You have my sympathies, my friends," said Curunir gravely. "At least I shall be able to journey to Minas Anor now and again, and see this fair image of that which we have left behind. Yet I must also pass through an even darker road than either of you; for I am bound to scour the land of Mordor, whose shadow glowers in the East even under this bright Sun. Not till my researches there are complete will I be able to venture West of Anduin again."

"That is indeed an ill fate, as Cirdan said," offered Alatar.

"Still," said Curunir, assuming a resolute air, "we should not complain about our lot. We accepted it freely, for the Valar would not have forced it upon us had we been utterly unwilling. Even Mithrandir choose this course of his own avail, after long entreaty by the Valar. Though it brightens my heart to gaze upon the White Tree, we must all steel ourselves for the storms that are to come, and focus on the tasks at hand. To work, my friends!" And with that he strode past the White Tree and the fountain court, and up the steps to the bronze doors of the Citadel, wherein lay the entrance to the Archives beneath.

Alatar and Pallando turned their gaze away from the Fountain Court for a moment, and gazed at the jagged Mountains of Shadow on the Eastern horizon. They then stared grimly at each other, before turning back to the Citadel, following in Curunir's trail to the studies that awaited them.


	4. East of Anduin

**IV.) East of Anduin**

At the crossroads of Ithilien, before the marble statue of Isildur that marked that ancient place of meeting, and beneath a stand of youthful pine trees whose bowers swung gently in the mountain winds, the three Wizards prepared to say their farewells.

Ten years had it been since their arrival at Minas Anor. Long had they studied there, deciphering many ancient scrolls and books of Numenor that could no longer be understood by the Gondor-men, and learning all they could from more recent records of the lands and peoples of Middle Earth. They had left behind certain marginal notes and commentaries on the scrolls and records for the edification of the Gondor-men, thus fulfilling their promise to King Ciryandil that they would offer samples of their own lore in exchange for access to Gondor's archives.

When Curunir had deemed the time to be right, they set loose their Elven-steeds to find their own way along the high road back to Mithlond – for Cirdan had requested that they not bring their steeds East of Anduin, but allow them to return to their Elven homeland when the time had come to venture into the East. Accepting Ciryandil's gift from the Royal Stables at Osgiliath of a white stallion for Curunir, and brown stallions for the Blue Wizards, as well as a good store of water and provision for their saddle bags, they had crossed the bridge over the Anduin to the city's Eastern Gate.

The Wizards had reached the Eastern Gate in the small hours of a cool spring morning, the Moon and stars shining clear and bright in the heavens above, and they were keen to begin their journey now that they had at last resolved upon it. But the guards at the Gate had not permitted them to leave the city until dawn, for the Eastern Gate of Osgiliath was always shut and barred between the hours of sunset and sunrise, though in these days more out of tradition than fear of any real threat.

The Wizards had decided to humour the guards' decree, rather than bend the guards' wills to their own, and so waited patiently for almost an hour, until the Eastern sky glowed first pale, then rosy with the light of the rising Sun. The guards then shot back the bolts with heavy clangs, the great bronze doors swung open on their hinges, and the Wizards rode forth over the stone-flagged road through the land of Ithilien.

They had passed many fields and farms, their occupants stirring drowsily at the first light of day, until after some miles the land began to slope upwards. Then they left behind the thickly-settled farmlands of the Lower Vale of Anduin for the fragrant, pine-forested foothills of the Mountains of Shadow, whose jagged pinnacles of dull black rock loomed ever closer as they rode eastward, like giant talons clawing at the sky. The pine woods themselves were deep and dark, all the more so in the morning, when the Sun was still low in the East, and the mountains cast their vast shadows for many miles into the West.

Now that they had reached the Crossroads, they each sat on their mounts, facing each other, and making ready to depart on their separate ways.

"You are both sure of your paths for many miles ahead?" asked Curunir, his long face veiled in shadow beneath his peaked hat.

"I am journeying northward up this road," said Pallando, gesturing to his left, "until it turns sharply to the right at the wastes of the Daglorlad, and goes east past the Morannon. Then I will follow it for many long leagues, skirting the foothills of the Ash Mountains, and following it as it turns north and east. Then in time, I will come upon the land of Dorwinion by the western shores of the Sea of Rhun. There the reach of Gondor comes to an end. I shall have to decide at that point where next my path will take me, so that I may best approach the wild Rhunlings who live beyond the farther, eastern shores."

"Very good," said Curunir. "And you, Alatar?"

"I turn south upon the road," replied Alatar, gesturing to his right, "over the hills of Emyn Arnen, past the Crossings of Poros and Harnen, and so at last to Umbar, which marks the southern marches of Gondor. There I will learn what more I can of the paths that snake their way through the vast, empty deserts of Near Harad, so that I might find my way to the jungles of Far Harad, and begin my mission amongst the Men of that distant land."

"Correct," said Curunir. "I myself shall continue eastward upon this road, through the flowery Ithil Vale, and so at last to the fortress of Minas Ithil, that was Isildur's dwelling place of old. Then I will journey east from there over the Nameless Pass, and scour the land of Mordor for signs and portents of the Enemy, until at last I shall exit through Carach Angren. I may then head north, far north, for you will recall I had agreed that in time I would meet with Mithrandir and Aiwendil somewhere among the eaves of the Greenwood, and so receive their reports of what news they have discovered during their own journeys. No doubt I shall have to make contact with the Elves of the Greenwood first, to learn rumour of the whereabouts of our kindred in those lands. But that journey itself may be many years off, for the Black Land is vast, and it will be long before I can satisfy myself that the Shadow has not yet begun to manifest itself there – if indeed it has not."

"I do not envy your path through the Black Land, Curunir," said Alatar. "But you are fortunate that at least you shall soon come to Minas Ithil, and there can dwell in comfort for a time amongst the Gondor Men. Pallando and I shall have some days of riding, north or south, through these empty forests, before our roads bring us again into settled lands."

"Indeed," smiled Pallando, "I daresay a down mattress in Minas Ithil will be more comfortable than a mattress of pine needles, with a tree root in one's back to trouble one's sleep."

"Do not be too envious," chided Curunir. "I go not to Minas Ithil on holiday. In part, my purpose is to learn more of the Black Land from a garrison nigh to its frontiers, before I cross its borders. Yet Minas Ithil itself is of concern to me, and I would first satisfy myself regarding it."

"How is that fortress of concern?" asked Pallando, puzzled by Curunir's words.

"Perhaps I delved more deeply than you into those scrolls of Minas Anor which concerned the Enemy and his wiles and devices," replied Curunir. "But I have inferred many things about the Enemy's Black Art, and the powers it may confer on those who are initiated into its secrets. Both of you are aware that Minas Ithil was for twelve years occupied by the Ringwraiths, during the war of the Last Alliance?"

"Aye, that is well known," said Alatar. "Minas Morgul, the Tower of Dark Sorcery, it was called at that time."

"Then suffice to say," continued Curunir, "that I am uneasy as to what sorcery the Ringwraiths may have worked during their time there, brief as it was. I cannot believe that they would have fled Minas Ithil without leaving behind some lingering trace of their evil. Such a trace might be invisible to mortal eyes, which can only see by light of Sun or Moon, or by torchlight. But I may be able to sense things in that tower that are beyond mortal ken. It may well be that a geas or hex was left on Minas Ithil, lying dormant, but waiting only a command in the Black Speech to awaken and bring doom upon the garrison. If so, then Minas Ithil is in truth the weakest link in Gondor's defences, and the Gondor-men should know of it."

"Those are grim thoughts, Curunir," said Alatar. "Yet your guesses may prove correct. And your words are a reminder to Pallando and myself never to underestimate the wiles of the Enemy. He may have left other traces of his dark presence, in the lands of the Easterlings and Southrons, which were long under his sway. We must be cautious, that we are not ourselves ensared."

"Indeed we must," frowned Pallando.

"Well then, my friends," said Curunir. "The Sun is beginning to shine amongst the branches, and already it must be past the fifth hour since sunrise. Noon will be upon us before long. Let us say farewell, and then depart our separate ways. It may be long indeed before we see each other again; yet in time, if I can afford to set other tasks aside, I may journey into the far East and South myself, and so learn what progress you have made amongst the wild Men of those lands."

"Farewell," replied the Blue Wizards. "We hope we shall not disappoint you."

"And we should maintain contact with each other, Pallando, through we be separated by many miles" said Alatar. "For our minds and powers are bound together to some degree, and our challenges are similar. We may be able to learn from our trials and errors, each from the other."

"I was about to suggest the same thing myself," replied Pallando. "Indeed we shall coordinate our efforts. Farewell!"

And with that, the Wizards turned their backs on each other and departed their separate ways; Pallando along the North Road, Alatar along the South, and Curunir to the East.


	5. The Vale of Minas Ithil

**V.) The Vale of Minas Ithil**

"Truly, Captain Bregolas, the tales of Minas Ithil and its fabled vale do not do justice to its beauty," said Curunir, a warm smile lighting his long, sable-bearded face, as he stared out an arched window of the fortress' Citadel Tower at the valley far below. The Tower itself, and the walls of Minas Ithil, were infused by some long-lost art of Numenor with the light of the Moon, and glowed softly under the stars, complementing the light flowing freely from the waxing Moon itself as it rose in the Eastern sky. The jagged peaks of the Mountains of Shadow were impenetrably black at this hour, and it was impossible to discern them clearly. But the pine-clad slopes of the valley rustled in the winds, and the mountain air was fragrant with their scent, mixed with that of the many fair flowers that carpeted the meadow of the Ithil Vale far below.

"So you say, my lord" replied Bregolas, a heavy-set man of medium height, with graying brown locks and hazel eyes, who had the resigned air of one who still fulfills his duties long after he has forgotten their purposes. He turned away from the window, and strode across the small marble-paneled room to his wooden seat by a fireplace that was cut into the wall of the chamber. Bregolas stoked the dying fires with an iron poker, to stir them back to life, and a warm glow suffused the room as he did so.

"And so say all who visit Minas Ithil for a brief time," Bregolas continued, returning the poker to its iron rack, and turning to face Curunir. "But I tell you, I would leave this place in a heartbeat if I could. In all the lands under the Crown of Gondor, only the watchtower of Cirith Ungol above the Nameless Pass to the East, and the towers of Carach Angren by the Haunted Pass to the North, are worse postings than this seemingly fair tower and its flowery vale."

"Seemingly fair?" enquired Curunir. He turned away from the window, and sat in another wooden chair by the fire that stood opposite the Captain, and by which he had left leaning against the wall his staff. "Why is it only seeming, my dear Bregolas?" His smile now seemed more cryptical than pleasant.

Bregolas frowned, and remained silent for a time, appearing reluctant to speak. "You have only been here for a day, Curunir," he said at length. "Even so, have you noticed how all the men of this fortress can always be found together? Clustering together during their watches on the walls; huddled together at the trestle tables when taking their meat in the Great Hall; playing together at the game boards, or resting together in their barracks. But never alone. No, never alone if they can help it." He shivered, though the early evening air was warm.

"And why never alone?" enquired Curunir conversationally.

"This is not a good place to be alone, my lord," said Bregolas. "Not a good place at all. Men have bad dreams here; foul nightmares, verily, and not a night passes without one of my men screaming in his sleep, awakening in a cold sweat. It is too quiet here, my lord, too silent. The walls themselves seem to be watching, listening, and it is unnerving to walk through the empty corridors or along the battlements by oneself. Laughter falls short here, as if it is unwelcome, and does not belong. Even yonder vale," he continued, gesturing towards the arched window, "is too silent and empty for my liking. If it is so fair, then where are the birds? For there is never any birdsong in the Ithil vale. And where are the beasts? You must pass west of this vale, to the Crossroads of Ithilien, before you'll find so much as a rabbit. Even the lesser creatures, the frogs for instance, where is their chorus, which would echo loudly throughout a spring night such as this anywhere else in Ithilien? Bees and other such bugs are the only moving things in this valley apart from my men and their steeds. Truly, this tower and its vale are oft as silent as a tomb. The only sound here is the accursed wind, which in the winter moans down the Nameless Pass from the Black Land to the East, and even that is a sound fit more for a graveyard than a dwelling-place of living Men."

He shuddered, and then his voice dropped to a whisper. "And that is not the worst. Despite the absence of birds and beasts, we are not alone in this valley. A dark terror dwells in the peaks of the Mountains of Shadow, between here and Cirith Ungol."

"A dark terror?" asked Curunir, frowning now. "Tell me more, Bregolas. I have read nothing of this in the records at Minas Anor. How long has it dwelt here?"

"Ever and anon, they say," replied Bregolas. "Even since the far-off days of Isildur. There are paths and stairs that scale the south wall of yon valley, and they lead to a cave that tunnel through the Mountains of Shadow, and so run by a shortcut to the guardtower at Cirith Ungol. To travel from here to Cirith Ungol otherwise requires a journey of many miles over the Nameless Pass, and then back again along the far slopes of the mountains. Yet that cave is a foul place. More than one man with an errand between Minas Ithil and Cirith Ungol has ventured in there, never to return. And even entire parties of men in the woods or rocks some distance beyond the cave have disappeared without trace. Ever since I took command here, some dozen years ago, I have forbidden the men of my garrison from climbing the stairs to the cave, or venturing into the pine forests in the southern half of the Ithil Vale at all. If they must bear a message to Cirith Ungol, then I require them to take the long way round."

"That is indeed sombre news," said Curunir gravely. "Yet you are sure this is not a recent portent?"

"A portent, my lord?" asked Bregolas, his hazel eyes flashing with surprise. "A portent of what? But no, this terror was feared even in Isildur's time, if old tales be true, and I daresay has been feared in all the years since then."

"Well," said Curunir, visibly relaxing, "a portent was perhaps not the best choice of words. And it appears whatever evil dwells above Cirith Ungol has done so for many long years, and may not be of relevance to my mission. Perhaps that pass is indeed haunted by one of the children of Ungoliant the Devourer, as the name suggests. But know that your King, as explained in the letter of marque that I presented to you, has renewed his vigilance against the return of evil creatures to the Black Land and its marches. It is my purpose to enter that land, over the Nameless Pass, and ensure that it still remains as empty it has since the defeat of the Enemy, a thousand years ago."

"May the Valar preserve you!" gasped Bregolas with shock, looking genuinely alarmed. "We keep watch on the Black Land, on the wastes of Gorgoroth, from the watchtower of Cirith Ungol, and from Carach Angren. I have seen Gorgoroth myself from afar, and the sight of that land of terror will be seared into my unhappy memory until my dying day. I pity the Men of Gondor who are posted to the garrisons of those grim towers, Cirith Ungol and Carach Angren, and must endure the sight of Gorgoroth from afar for weeks at a time. Here at Minas Ithil we draw lots to determine who is to be sent to the Ungol watch – sorrowful they are to be dispatched to that grim duty, and happy when they return, even to this haunted tower. Yet no living man has dared set foot upon the blasted soil of Gorgoroth itself for hundreds of years!"

"All the more reason that I do so now," said Curunir firmly. "For it appears to me that your vigilance has slipped, if you think that you could detect the return of the Enemy's servants to the Black Land merely by watching from afar. Patrols of mounted guards should be sent to scour Gorgoroth regularly."

"We've received no such orders," replied Beregond, his ire raised at receiving military advice from a civilian and a foreigner to boot, even one as high and mighty as this so-called Wizard. "And we shall not welcome them if we do. Not one man of my garrison, or of the watches on Cirith Ungol or Carach Angren would venture into the Black Land, except on pain of death. Even a flogging for disobedience would gladly be endured, before a setting foot in the wastes of Gorgoroth."

"Then be grateful that I do your work for you," replied Curunir curtly. "And now, Captain Bregolas," he continued, rising to his feet, and towering over the smaller Gondor-man, "I have seen and heard enough to satisfy my curiosity, as far as Minas Ithil is concerned. Tomorrow at dawn I will take your leave, and venture up the Nameless Pass to Cirith Ungol and the borders of the Black Land, just as I have said."

"Then on your own head be it," replied Bregolas, also standing to his feet. "Your chambers are waiting for you, my lord, and your saddlebag and hat were placed within by my guardsmen. But…in spite of your proud words I will allow you to bunk with me in this room instead, should you not wish to share the barracks where I spend the hours of sleep with my men. You may soon find that a night in a chamber of Minas Ithil by yourself is no laughing matter."

"Thank you, no, Captain," replied Curunir, his dark eyes glinting with strange mirth. "I do not fear your bogeys and night terrors. This place is not haunted, as you deem, though I acknowledge that a dark shadow lies upon it. But you will suffer no harm here - not unless the Enemy himself should return. Even then, you might be able to hold this strong tower against him for a time, if only you retained sufficient courage."

"Surely that black day will never come," replied Bregolas. "The Enemy met his doom long ago, they say. But follow me! I will show you to your quarters, and then bid you good night. My men upon the walls could doubtless use my company."

* * *

The Dawn had arrived grey and cloudy, threatening a spring rainfall, and the light of the rising Sun was trapped in the clouds. The sky was thus suffused with an angry red glow, and framed by the rocky walls of the narrow defile known as the Nameless Pass. Curunir journeyed up this pass, his horse plodding slowly and neighing uncertainly as a cold wind soared downwards, whistling and moaning, into the Ithil vale below. He turned his glance behind him, and for a few moments looked upon the distant green vale of Ithil and its pine clad hills, and the fair tower of Minas Ithil rising pale and slim from the meadow, its appearance as charming now as it had been at night, despite all the dark whispers of its garrison.

"Indeed the Ringwraiths did their work all too well," whispered Curunir. "I had thought some hex might have been left upon Minas Ithil that would in time harm the Men who dwell there directly. Yet more subtle were the wiles of the Witch King. For by his Black Art, a nameless fear shrouds that valley and its tower, and numbs the hearts of its garrison. Should the Enemy ever return, the Gondor-men will doubtless flee at his approach and that of his minions, rather than hold the tower until reinforcements arrive as they should. Truly is it said that fear has ever been one of Sauron's chief weapons." Sighing, he turned his gaze back up the pass, to the East, encouraging his reluctant mount to push forward to the crest of the road so that he could gaze down for the first time into Mordor, the Black Land of the Enemy.

At length, he reached the crest, and gasped as his horse reared back, foaming at the mouth with terror as the ruined land unfolded before his gaze. Beneath the ruddy clouds, and beyond the broken teeth of the Morgai, the eastern outlier of the Mountains of Shadow, there lay the barren ash and dust, the reeking pits, the stains of brimstone and muck vomited forth from the tortured earth, that had disfigured the plain of Gorgoroth since Sauron the Abhorred first took it as his own domain. The land was utterly dead and void, and not a sound could be heard but the cold East wind scouring the barren rock and dust.

Above all stood Orodruin, the Mountain of Fire, known to the Gondor-men as Mount Doom. Its gray bulk soared above the barren deserts of the plain; still and silent it had stood for many centuries, yet Curunir knew that that the fires of inner earth still burned within. Beyond Mount Doom, he could see a smooth platform beneath a spur of the Ash Mountains; the foundations of the Barad-dur, the Dark Tower of the Enemy. A thousand years ago had Isildur torn that tower to the ground, yet its foundations had proved impregnable to any assault. To find out why was one of the many tasks that faced Curunir as he delved into the mysteries of the Black Land.

"Such power and nobility was vested in the one known in this Middle Earth as Sauron," whispered Curunir, as he stroked the flanks of his steed, restoring its calm. "Such potential. It is a tragedy to think of all the good that he could have accomplished, and then see the uses to which he has put his power; only to burn and destroy, to blast and wither. Morgoth turned Sauron to evil, and twisted and corrupted his spirit beyond all recognition, as he twisted and corrupted all things that came under his dominion." He sighed, his dark eyes mournful. "We Istari can only hope that we never succumb to Sauron's fate."

Urging his reluctant mount forward, Curunir began his long descent from the Nameless Pass into the Black Land.


	6. By the Sea of Rhun

**VI.) By the Sea of Rhun**

Pallando spurred his steed to a final effort, and at length reached the crest of the sandy hill they had climbed, stopping to take in the vista beyond.

For months he had traveled north and east, past the Mountains of Shadow and the Carach Angren, past the Ash Mountains and the empty lands beyond, yet still within the far-flung reaches of Gondor's empire. Then in time he had passed over the mountains and through the vales of Dorwinion, and still he had traveled eastward; past the storied vineyards of that land, heavy with leaf and grape, past its fortified farmsteads of rough-hewn logs of oak and ash. Now, in the autumn of the year, as the ever-present East wind began to smell and taste of frost, and the leaves of the hedges and copses turned ruddy and golden, he had come to the hither shores of the inland Sea of Rhun.

Here, in the East, the sprawling realm of Gondor reached its uttermost end. The bright blue waters of the sea, glinting with the late-morning Sun, lapped at the sandy dunes of the beach. From the hill where Pallando sat on his steed, the dusty road looped down through the dunes and passed through a wooden stockade reached its end in a town of Men that huddled on the sands by the shores of the Sea. The town was built of oak and ash logs in the manner of all the houses of Dorwinion. A little river snaked its way eastward between the houses, and turned suddenly to the south where it met a sandspit that jutted out into the water. Behind this spit was a natural harbour, and along its shores were a number of wooden docks, sheltering the oaken longships that carried cargos of wine, timber or fish along the shores of the Sea, and up and down the rivers Running and Redwater that flowed into it from the lands of the distant North.

"It appears we've reached the end of the road," said Pallando, as he patted the horse's flank. The beast snorted and pawed the ground. "Fear not," continued the Wizard, "for while I must charter one of yonder ships to the farther shore, your journey will not take you beyond that town. But a few more miles, and then I shall set you at liberty, to return to the King's Stables at Osgiliath. You are a fine thoroughbred; not for you, I deem, are the trackless wastes of the uttermost East, and most likely I shall have to travel on foot." The horse whinnied hopefully, and then resumed its canter down the hill.

After half an hour's time, as the bell of the watchtower tolled the arrival of the Noon hour, Pallando came to the closed wooden gate amid the stockade that barred the entrance to the town. The banner of Gondor, the White Tree upon a black field, flapped in the breeze from a pole that rose above the oak-beamed watchtower to the right of the gate. The dozen or so black-tunic'd Gondor-men who manned the battlements glared with suspicion at this strange visitor.

"You're surely not of our kindred," said one of the guards, speaking the Common Tongue of the West with an accent that marked him as a pure-bred Gondor-man as clearly as his grey eyes, black hair, and tall, slim stature. "Nor are you one of the Dorwinion-men, whose beards are all as yellow as straw," continued the guard. "If you are an Easterling, then you will find nothing here but your doom, for Gondor will not allow barbarian spies to scout these lands. Who are you, then, and what is your business? Speak!"

"I am the Blue Wizard," he replied, as patiently as he could; he had endured many such challenges since entering Dorwinion, which as the easternmost march of Gondor was heavily patrolled by the King's soldiers. "I bear a letter of marque from your King Ciryandil, granting me free passage throughout his lands."

"Do you indeed?" replied the guard with a frown, as his grey eyes took the measure of this oddly-garbed stranger. "Stay where you are, then; we shall open the gate, and send out a party to examine your scroll. Be warned; death will find you swiftly if you attempt any trickery."

"There is no trickery!" snapped Pallando, his patience now wearing thin. "Examine the scroll, and then let me proceed forthwith! I have ridden hard over many long miles, in which there were no inns or taverns to shelter the weary traveler. I am keen for bread and board, aye and wine too, and a roof over my head once again."

The guard said nothing, but withdrew from the battlements above the gate. A clanking and crashing was heard, the gate slowly opened outward, and several spear-wielding guards stepped forth, including the one who had challenged Pallando from the battlements. After studying the scroll for some minutes, he handed it back to Pallando, and then bowed his head briefly.

"Your pardon, my lord," said he, his manner apologetic. "It is seldom that we receive visitors in these parts who bear a letter of marque from His Majesty. I had doubted that you bore such a scroll in truth. Mardil is my name, Sergeant-at-Arms of the gate."

"I am not offended, Sergeant Mardil," replied Pallando. "Merely tired. I understand suspicion of strangers is perhaps to be expected on Gondor's frontiers. Speaking of which, perhaps you can tell me the name of this town, so that I can be certain I have reached my destination?"

"This town is named Nindemos in our tongue, my lord," replied Mardil, "though the local Men of Dorwinion call it Hasufeld in their own rude tongue. It is the end of the East Road; nothing lies beyond here but the Inland Sea, and the wilds of the uttermost East beyond that."

"Then this is indeed the place that I sought," replied Pallando. "Perhaps, kind sir, you may direct me to an inn where I may spend the night?"

"The Vine and Leaf," replied the Mardil. "It is right by the docks, and well-signed, so you can't miss it if you follow the High Street east through the town. The proprietor, Rollo by name, is fluent in our Common Tongue as well as the tongue of Dorwinion, so you should have no difficultly obtaining room and board there on reasonable terms."

"I am not in the business of haggling with innkeepers," smiled Pallando. "But I thank you for your counsel."

Pallando then dismounted from his horse, and removed its saddlebag with his left hand, while leaning on his crystal staff with his other hand. He slung the saddlebag over his shoulder, whispered quietly into the horse's ear, and then turned to the guards, saying "Take this proud steed to your stables, and see to it that it is fed and watered, and accommodated comfortably. It is from the King's Stables at Osgiliath, and should be dispatched to its home in the care of the next mounted patrol that visits this town, when it returns to the West."

"We will do as you bid, my lord," replied the guard, staring at the horse in wonder. "But how will you return home without it? Do you mean to acquire a lesser steed here?"

"I have no need for such a beast where I am going," replied Pallando. "Good day!" And with that he turned his back on the guards, and strode down the High Street at a rapid pace.

"What an odd fellow," said one of the guards, a broad-shouldered youth of medium height.

"Mind your tongue, whelp!" shouted Mardil, cuffing the boy on the ear – albeit not too harshly. "Only a great lord could command a letter of marque from His Majesty, and you should not speak ill of your betters, whatever you think of their mode of speech or dress.

Now lead this horse to the stables – you'll answer with your own hide if his isn't taken care of!"

* * *

Pallando strode on foot through the dusty streets of the town, observing the sights and sounds. The buildings were all of one or two stories, with high-pitched shingle roofs; but, unlike the rough-hewn, isolated homesteads he had passed in his journey through the countryside of Dorwinion, these the logs of these townhouses were carved into intricate, interlacing patterns. In front of the houses were little gardens, separated from the streets by wooden fences. Here and there sheep and fowl were herded through the alleys of the town by rosy-cheeked women or women, all of them dressed in beige or green-dyed robes of homespun wool, and bearing the fair-skin, golden hair and blue eyes that typified their people. There were fewer men to be seen, though Pallando assumed that at this hour of the day they were either at their lunch tables, inside their workshops, or on their boats out at sea, depending on their vocation. The sea-breeze was omnipresent, although Pallando noted that it smelled more brackish than the winds that coursed over the Western ocean.

As Pallando neared the docks, which smelled vaguely of fish and tar, he came upon a two-storied house of fair size, with a carved and painted grape-leaf and vine hung from a signpost above the stout oaken door. Smoke issued from a short stone-flagged chimney above, indicated that warmth and perhaps a hot meal could be found within.

"This must be the place," said Pallando, as he passed through the door and gazed at the scene inside, his eyes blinking as they adapted to the dim light. Before him, it what appeared to be the Inn's common room, were a dozen or so trestle tables flanked by wooden benches, most of them occupied by working men on their lunch-hour, though some were vacant. At the far side of the room was a huge stone-flagged fireplace, which led up to the chimney that Pallando had seen from outside. A large fire roared on the hearth, and through it he could see meat turning on spits, and a crowded room beyond that which must have been the kitchen. To the left of the fireplace a door led to that kitchen, while to the right an open doorway showed stairs that must have led to the Inn's guest rooms.

Pallando observed carefully the occupants of the common room. But for one Gondor-man, a solider who was deep in his cups in his off-duty hours, they were all Men of Dorwinion; as tall at least as the Gondor-men, yet golden-haired and bearded, and blue-eyed and fair-skinned, with broad frames and deep, booming voices that often broke into laughter or song. They were kin of the Northmen whose homeland was in the upper Vales of Anduin, but who had spread far and wide across the Wilderland in the years since the defeat of the Enemy, which had brought peace and order under the rule of the Sea Kings, and opened for settlement many lands that had once been closed to Men.

While the Gondor-men sang but occasionally, and then in soft voices of tunes ancient and full of sorrow or longing, these Dorwinion-men ever wrote songs anew, of deeds bold and simple, of jests and brawls, of feasting and ribaldry, and they sung them in loud, rich voices that shook the timbers of their wooden halls. Yet for all their fair looks and their brawn, they were less in wisdom than the Men of Gondor; the memory of the deeds of their forefathers did not stretch back before the Battle of Gorgoroth, in which they had played a small part fighting under the banner of Elendil. Of the tale of years before that time they had none of their own certain lore, but only fantastic tales of gods and giants, trolls and dragons. Beside the somber men of Numenor-in-Exile, whose memory stretched clearly even unto the Elder Days, the Dorwinion-men were like all Northmen still children under the Sun. "Men of the Twilight indeed," whispered Pallando.

Turning his mind to the present, he sat down on a bench by an unoccupied trestle table some distance from the fireplace, removing his hat and placing it on top of his staff, which he leaned against the wall beside him. He was soon approached by a maiden of twenty or so summers, wearing a beige woolen dress, with her long golden hair plaited in two tails. She asked in heavily-accented Common Speech how she could be of service to her guest – "Do try the wine, my lord, it's the finest in all Dorwinion, which is saying quite a bit." Pallando requested room and board along with his wine, to which she replied, "I'll bring you bread and more besides for your board, though you'll have to speak to Rollo the Innkeeper about a room. I'll let him know you wish to parley with him." She departed through the door to the kitchens, and returned some minutes later bearing a heavy wooden tray laden with plates of meat, fish, fowl, cheese, bread, grapes and berries, and with a clay pitcher of rich red wine accompanied by a brass bowl. "A hearty feast indeed," the Wizard thought to himself as he tucked in eagerly.

Some time later, when Pallando had finished his ample meal, and was polishing off the last of the wine, a booming voice interrupted his repast.

"Welcome, sir! Welcome to Hasufeld, and to the Vine and Leaf!"

Pallando looked up at an enormous man, near seven feet in height, and easily some three-hundred pounds in girth. He was dressed in woolen robes of dark green, though over them he wore a stained apron of plain woolen cloth. His golden hair and beard had a silver tinge, and his bright red face formed a contrast to his cheerful blue eyes.

"Good afternoon to you, dear sir," replied Pallando. "You are Rollo the Innkeeper, I presume?"

"I am indeed," beamed the man, whom Pallando noted used the Common Tongue with hardly the trace of an accent.

"I am one of the Wizards, of whom you may have heard?" asked Pallando.

"The name is not familiar to me, sir," replied Rollo, frowning apologetically.

"Well. In any case, I wish to rent a room for the night," said Pallando. "One night only,

for I will be on my way in the morning."

"Certainly sir," replied Rollo cheerfully. "We have a very fine room still available – the best in the house, and fitting for a gentleman from the Westlands such as I perceive you to be. Let's see – including wine, this dinner and the evening's supper, tomorrow's breakfast, and the room, I would charge you eight copper pieces – a very reasonable price, if I do say so myself. We also have a fine washhouse available – if you wished for your water to be hot rather than cold, I'm afraid I would have to charge you another two copper pieces. So, ten coppers, or one silver piece if you prefer, will buy you a day and night of the finest accommodation that Hasufeld affords."

"I have no copper pieces, nor silver either," replied Pallando, reaching under his blue robes for a hefty purse that had been offered him by the King as a stipend. "Perhaps one of these will suffice?" He removed from the purse a gold piece, and held it up to the innkeeper, its shiny sides flashing in the firelight as he did so.

Rollo's jaw dropped in astonishment. "A gold sovereign!" he cried. "I haven't seen one of those for an age! Why sir, that would buy you the best room and board this establishment has to offer for near a month!"

"Well, it's all I have for you," replied Pallando. "But instead of a month's room and board, when I require only a day's, I would use the remaining value of this gold sovereign to purchase from you information, and perhaps some introductions as well."

"I'm all yours sir," replied Rollo, as he sat down on the bench across the table from Pallando. "Information, introductions – I'm entirely at your disposal!"

"My thanks, good sir," smiled Pallando, pushing the gold piece across the wooden table at the innkeeper – who snatched it up and pocketed it with a move so quick that even the Wizard's keen eyes could barely follow it.

Pallando then began to question the innkeeper at length about Dorwinion and the lands about, both East and West – though particularly in the East. He noted that Rollo shied away from questions about the lands beyond the Eastern shore of the Inland Sea, and tried to steer the conversation to the lands to the West and North. Pallando choose to accommodate him for a time, and at length remarked that he was surprised that he had not seen any Elves in Dorwinion. "For they are fond of the waters of rivers and seas, and of the fruits and nectar of the vine, and there are all of these things aplenty in this land," observed the Wizard.

"Say you so?" replied the innkeeper, a frown marring his golden-bearded face. "Well, it is true indeed that we have no Elvish wights in this land, thank the gods. Our distant Northern kindred by Lake Esgaroth, of the Lake-Town and of Dale, trade with the Elves of the Greenwood. Still, that is their affair. The Lake-men and Dale-men are a strange folk in any event, who have long been sundered from us; even our speech has grown apart, so now we must use the Common Tongue of the Gondor-men when we would have dealings with each other."

"Indeed," replied the Wizard. It was not the first time that he had noted hostility to the Elves amongst mortals, which seemed to grow the stronger the further East he traveled. "But now," he continued, "if I may return to an earlier vein of our conversation, which I would mine anew. I would hear tell more of the wild Easterlings, for I am a scholar of much lore that you would deem curious. Those wild Men are of interest to me, fierce and fell though they might appear to you. Tell me, how stand matters between the Men or Dorwinion, and the Men of Rhun? Indeed, what kinship have you to the Rhunlings, if any? For such matters seem but little known to the Gondor-men, who ever face West rather than East."

Rollo's blue eyes glared fiercely, and his face flushed red. "You are an outlander, Wizard, and ignorant of our ways. So I will forgive your foolish remarks, though I will not forget them. But we Men of Dorwinion are no kin of the Rhunlings! The Rhunlings speak no tongue that we can understand. They are not even truly Men, I reckon; for they live like beasts, and wear the undressed hides of beasts, and I daresay smell like beasts too. They slay each other as readily as our people, for they are divided into many warring tribes. They have no proper tools or weapons, using only those made out of wood or stone, or sometimes of copper. Yet there are many of them, and they are fierce and dangerous; if it were not for the armies of the Gondor-men, we would be hard-pressed to keep the peace in these lands. The Rhunlings could not drive us out, mind; but they could burn our crops, and slay our beasts, and ruin our trade, and we would live in misery and want on their account. Curse the lot of them!"

"Calm yourself please, my dear Rollo," replied the Wizard, raising his palms in supplication. "I meant no offense."

The innkeeper muttered under his breath, but then nodded. "Aye, well, forgive my outburst," he replied more calmly. "Your speech isn't quite like that of the Gondor-men, but your question made me think of them at their worst; all pride and pomp, and willful ignorance of us lesser Men, as they think of us. Yet I see that it was but an honest inquiry on your part."

"Indeed it was," replied Pallando. "But I'm afraid I must ask you something even more shocking. Do you know any of the captains on the local fishing or trading vessels, now in port, who would be willing to bear a passenger to the Eastern shore?"

"Who on earth would wish to make such a journey?" replied Rollo, looking doubtfully at the Wizard. "Many fishing vessels sail regularly to the shores of Rhun, for there are good fishing grounds there – but they stay at least an arrowshot away from the coast, for oft the Rhunlings spy on them, and would gladly capture one of our ships to loot it if they could. Aye, and to slay its crew as well, simply for the malice of it."

"I'm pleased to hear the sea-routes East are well known to your captains," replied Pallando. "But I myself am the passenger who wishes to make this journey."

"Sir!" cried Rollo, his face blanching pale, and looking really frightened for a moment, before he began to regain his composure. "Sir, pardon my ill manners, but surely you must be a might touched, to contemplate such a voyage! Even if a captain could be found to bear you to the shores of Rhun, you would never return! Your head would be decorating the fetish-tent of one of the Rhunling tribes before the nightfall of your arrival on that ill-fated shore!"

"I very much doubt that will be my fate," smiled Pallando. "A curious fellow I may seem to your eyes, a reedy scholar from the Westlands no doubt. But there is far more to me than meets the eye. The entire garrison of the Gondor-men here at Hasufeld could not hinder me in the least if I set my powers against them. Nor are the simple Rhunlings any threat to me."

Rollo pulled back from the table, his face now set and grim. "I wish now I had not accepted your gold sovereign, stranger," he said. "For naught but the powers of the Black Arts could allow one old man to slay two-score and ten armed soldiers, let alone an entire tribe of fierce Rhunlings, and we will have no truck nor trade with necromancers in these parts." Pallando noted that the singing from the other tables had died suddenly, and that many fierce blue eyes were now glaring at him with suspicion from across the room. Only the Gondorian soldier, who was indeed deep in his cups, seemed indifferent to the innkeeper's remarks.

"You misunderstand me, sir," replied Pallando, his eyes now dark and hard. "I never mentioned word of the arts of the Enemy – and indeed, I am tempted to take sore offence myself, that you would in any way compare my skills to his. But you did accept my gold sovereign, and I mean to hold you to your word. Before tomorrow morning, you will introduce me to whatever sea captain you deem most likely to accept a passenger to the East – and be sure to tell him I will pay him much gold as a reward for his labours. What happens to me after that is no concern of his or yours."

As the other occupants of the common room began to rise from their tables and hurriedly exit the inn, glaring again at Pallando and whispering darkly amongst themselves, the innkeeper nodded reluctantly, and began to consider which captain he could call upon to bear this blue-robed madman to the farther shore.

* * *

After much searching along the docks, Rollo had found only a single captain, one Hrothgar by name, who was willing to bear Pallando to the shores of Rhun. It had taken an offer of three gold sovereigns to secure Hrothgar's ship for that purpose – which was doubtless nearly three times what such a voyage was worth. Pallando, however, considered it far beneath his dignity to haggle over coin with any mortal Man, and paid the enormous sum to the captain without comment.

After the Wizard had departed from the pier for his room at the inn, Hrothgar had intimated to Rollo that he was of more than half of a mind to keep this foolish Westron's gold and set sail from Hasufeld to another port along the shores of Dorwinion forthwith, rather than fulfill his obligations and risk a landing on the shores of Rhun. However, Rollo warned him in graphic terms of the Wizard's claim to mastery of the Black Arts - for all magical operations were Black Arts to his own stolid mind, Pallando's denials notwithstanding. He convinced the captain that to cheat such a sorcerer might bring calamity not only on himself and his crew, but to the entire land of Dorwinion and its people.

So in the end, Hrothgar reluctantly agreed to keep his word. At dawn the next morning Pallando, well-fed, well-rested and refreshed, found the sea captain - a tall, slim man, dressed in a beige oilskin with matching trowsers, whose golden beard half-covered a scar that ran from his right temple to his chin - standing on the pier by a gankplank that led to his sleek-hulled longship.

"Good morning to you, kind sir," offered Pallando, who then turned his gaze to the longship, noting with surprise that the head of a ferocious dragon had been carved into the prow. To the Wizard's eye, this rickety little craft, propelled by banks of wooden oars, and held together by nothing more than tar and nails, was hardly more than a floating barrel when compared to the enchanted Swan Ships fashioned by the Sea Elves of Avallone. But, he shrewdly recognized that Hrothgar would not understand such a comparison, nor appreciate it if he did.

"A fine vessel indeed, Captain Hrothgar," said Pallando diplomatically, turning his gaze back to the man. "Rollo chose well in selecting you for this mission. But tell me, where is your crew? I don't imagine you intend to row this vessel yourself."

"In town," responded Hrothgar warily, his Common Speech more heavily accented than Rollo's. "I told my men we'd set sail an hour after dawn. How many actually show up this morning, we'll see."

"Why would they not 'show up', as you put it, kind mariner?" enquired Pallando.

Hrothgar was on the verge of telling him to mind his business, but gazing into the Wizard's eyes, which seemed to shift curiously between various shades of blue – now clear and bright, now deep and dark - he remembered Rollo's warning about this outlander's sorcerous powers, and wisely held his temper in check. "Not all of them are keen on a trip to the shores of Rhun," was all he would tell the Wizard, who decided to accept the explanation rather than enquire further.

For some time, Pallando and Hrothgar stood on the pier in silence – the Wizard deep in contemplation, and the captain deep in calculation, silently cursing the fate that had led him, in his greed for a few gold sovereigns, to accept a sorcerer as cargo on his ship. Then, as the Sun rose higher in the East, and the folk of Hasufeld began to emerge from their houses for another day's work, a group of a dozen or so men, all of Dorwinion, and clad in sailor's garb like that of Hrothgar, made their way toward the pier, eyeing Pallando doubtfully.

"So that's all of you that managed to show up, is it?" grunted Hrothgar. "Where are Grimbold, Grima, and the others? We're short by fully eight men."

The crew muttered amongst themselves, and then shook their heads.

"So none of you sea rats know, eh?" scowled Hrothgar. "Well, I know I've no use for sailors who defy my orders at the first whiff of danger. If _I'm _willing to risk my neck for gold, there's no reason you lubbers shouldn't be willing to do just the same! Grimbold and his friends can find a new master when I return from this voyage; they won't be sailing on the _Dragon's Breath _again."

One of the sailors, an aging man with a long graying beard, muttered a few guttural phrases under his breath in the tongue of Dorwinion.

"What's that, Odda?" asked Hrothgar in the Common Tongue, glaring fiercely at the old man. "You say you're only risking your necks for silver, while I plan to keep most of the gold myself? Well, you're right. And if you don't like it, you can join Grimbold and his crew in their search for a new master – if you think any other master would have you at your age." Odda frowned, but then bowed his head, sullen in his defeat.

"Well, this has all been quite fascinating," said Pallando dryly, "but might I ask that we _please _get under way as soon as possible? I should like to reach my destination before the year is out."

"You heard this fine gentleman, lads," said Hrothgar. "Up the gangplank, and to your oars! You'll just have to row harder to make up for the absence of your mates."

The men scowled and cursed, but soon obeyed Hrothgar's orders, assuming their stations on the benches, with at least one man for each of the ten oars. Pallando followed Hrothgar onto the ship, and the Captain then raised the gangplank, untied the ropes that secured the vessel to the pier, and took his place by the steering-oar at the stern of the ship, Pallando standing by his side.

"And, _row!" _shouted Hrothgar. The men set to, and within a quarter of an hour the _Dragon's Breath_ had navigated its way out of the harbour, past the sandspit, and into the open waters of the Inland Sea, setting a course eastward for the shores of Rhun.

* * *

Some five days later, about three hours after sunrise, Pallando stood by the prow of the ship, holding his cloak tight about himself to keep out the chill of the East Wind, and gazing intently at the shore of Rhun that stretched along the horizon. With some disappointment, he noted that it appeared no different from the sand dunes and grasses that lined the shore of Dorwinion, save that there were no traces of habitation by Men, or for that manner by anyone.

"A barren land, is not, Captain?" asked the Wizard, turning to Hrothgar, who stood amidship, supervising the rowing of his weary men, while another crewman guided the steering oar. Hrothgar gave him a gimlet-eyed stare, and then turned his attention back to his men. "You'll find out soon enough whether it's bare of Rhunlings, sir," was all Hrothgar would say of the matter.

"I should hope it is not," said Pallando with a frown, "for then my mission would be in vain."

Shaking his head with disgust, and muttering under his breath, Hrothgar turned his back on the Wizard and returned to his post at the steering oar, sending the sailor who manned it back to his bench.

At length, the _Dragon's Breath,_ which like all the longboats of Dorwinion had a shallow hull that allowed it to navigate in water as little as four feet deep, sailed to just beyond an arrowshot of the sandy shore, some three-hundred paces as it would be measured on dry land. Hrothgar shouted an order, and one of the crewmen got up from his bench and dropped the anchor into the foaming waters, while the rest released their oars, rubbing their sore arms with relief.

"We are still some distance from land, Captain," noted Pallando with displeasure. "I don't intend to swim to shore like a fish."

"And I don't intend to lose my ship to the Rhunlings," shot back Hrothgar. "That shore may appear barren, but two score of those devils could be hiding behind that sand dune even as we speak. We'll use the skiff for your landing."

"So be it," sighed Pallando. "As long as we land soon. This voyage with your surly crew has more than tried my patience as it is."

_He_ _certainly seems eager to die today_, thought Hrothgar, though he kept his opinion to himself. He shouted more orders at his crew, and they moved to the stern of the vessel, using winches to raise the small skiff that was stowed opposite the steering-oar over the side of the _Dragon's Breath, _and then lower it into the choppy waters of the sea. Hrothgar barked orders to the crew, and four of them vaulted over the side of the ship, landing expertly in the bobbing skiff. They took up the wooden paddles that were stowed inside the vessel and sat on the benches, waiting patiently.

Other crew members threw Pallando's modest baggage into the skiff, and then stared at Pallando, grinning at the thought of witnessing this mad outlander miss the little boat and fall headlong into the sea. But to their surprise and disappointment, the Wizard vaulted lightly over the rail of the ship with greater agility than any of the sailors, and landed evenly in the skiff, quietly assuming his place on the empty front bench, while clutching his crystal staff tightly in his pale hands.

Hrothgar frowned, and then descended briefly into the open hold that lay amidships, returning with a large, locked case of polished dark wood. He removed a key from a chain about his neck, unlocked the case, and took out several polished iron swords and two sets of bows and arrows, which he distributed to the crew in the boat, while thrusting one of the swords beneath his own leathern belt. He closed the case, stowed it back in the hold, and then jumped into the skiff himself, taking his place at the prow beside Pallando.

"Now we're ready," Hrothgar muttered half to himself. Ignoring Pallando, he turned to his crew, and said, "Put your paddles to work, lads, and put some muscle into it! The sooner we reach the shore, the sooner we'll be safely back aboard the _Dragon's Breath_."

Grim and silent now, the four crewmen set to work, and within a quarter of an hour they had navigated the choppy waters to within a few paces of the beach. At a nod from Hrothgar, one of the crewmen, a lad in his twenties, said a prayer to the gods, took up Pallando's saddlebag, and then leaped over the side of the skiff into the shallow water. Gasping at its cold caress, he waded to the front of the skiff, and pulled it by a small rope attached to its prow onto the shore, so that both the Wizard could be deposited on the beach dry and intact – as per Hrothgar's agreement with him. What happened to their passenger after that was of no further concern to Hrothgar or his crew.

Just as the crewman had dropped the saddlebag on the sands, and finished hauling the prow of the skiff onto the beach, he gave a blood-curdling scream. Then dropped to the ground, a crude arrow embedded between his shoulders!

"Rhunlings!" cried Hrothgar, drawing his sword and plunging into the water along with the rest of his horrified crew, as they stared up at the sand dune that loomed over the beach, its crest some fifty feet above them. Over the dune poured fully a score of Rhunling warriors, their ragged furs flapping in the wind, their greasy black hair tangled and knotted, their stone-stipped spears and arrows at the ready, their deep, harsh voices raised in a terrible cry, like the howling of wolves on the hunt.

"Quick, how is Beorn?" cried Hrothgar, who stood now on the beach, his sword bared against his foes, as the other crewmen took up their wounded companion. The captain's rude manners and rough ways could not belie his impulse to defend one of his kinfolk, when threatened by the barbarians of Rhun.

"He breathes not! They have slain him!" cried the crewmen.

"Dogs!" snarled Hrothgar, turning to the Rhunlings. "Rush in and die!"

Things would then have gone ill for the captain, for half-a-dozen of the Rhunlings were armed with crude bows of horn and sinew, and they fired a volley of stone-stipped arrows at Hrothgar. But to Hrothgar's amazement, Pallando intervened, leaping out of the skiff onto the shore, and deflecting the arrows with a lightning-fast move of his crystal staff.

"Back to your ship!" cried Pallando, turning to the captain. "I will deal with this lot in my own way."

"Nay, we will not flee yet!" cried Hrothgar, shaking his sword with fury. "They have slain one of our own blood. We claim the blood price! Death to the Rhunlings!" The other Dorwinion-men, having laid Beorn in the skiff, now took up their swords and prepared to charge at their howling foes, who were almost upon them.

They never got the chance, for the Blue Wizard had seen enough of this folly. Raising his crystal staff high into the air, he spoke a terrible Word of Command. There was a sudden flash, as of lightening, after which the sky darkened for a moment. Then the light of the Sun shone on the beach once more, but both Rhunling and Dorwinion-man had ceased their charges, and now stared in wonder and fear at the blue-robed figure before them, who seemed to have grown in stature until he was nearly a giant in their eyes.

"_Behold!"_ cried Pallando, in a suddenly deep voice that echoed for miles along the shore. "Drop your weapons and pray to your gods, men of Rhun, for the Dead have risen to claim their due!"

To the awestruck horror of both the Rhunlings and Hrothgar's crew, the sands beneath their feet began to shift to and fro, as if something stirred beneath. Suddenly, from out of the sands, white claws and withered arms shot forth; the arms and hands of living skeletons! Creaking and clacking, fully a score of fleshless skeletons pulled themselves up from the sands of the beach, their empty sockets fixing on the Rhunlings, as they stretch out their bony arms and began shambling toward them.

Screaming with terror, the Rhunlings dropped their weapons and fell to the ground, paralyzed by fear. The Dorwinion-men were hardly in any better condition as, clutching their swords with trembling hands, they prayed loudly to their gods and shrank back from the Wizard, whose mastery of the Black Arts (as it seemed to them) was now all too clear.

Pallando, holding his staff firmly in his right hand, rushed toward the skiff, up nearly to the rim of his boots in seawater, and with his free left hand plucked the arrow intact from Beorn's back, glancing at it briefly before casting it onto the shore. Then he turned to Hrothgar and said, "Be silent, and listen!"

Pale and shaking, Hrothgar turned his gaze from the undead horrors to the Wizard. "Beorn yet lives," said Pallando rapidly. "The wound is not deep. He only ceased breathing for a moment from the shock of the arrow's impact. Take him back to your ship, cleanse his wound with wine from your hold, rub such salves as you have on it, and bind it with clean cloth. With any luck he should pull through and live for many a long year. Now go! Quickly!"

Needing no encouragement for haste, Hrothgar and his crew pushed the skiff back fully into the water, leapt into it, dropped their swords and took up their paddles, and rowed for dear life back to the safety of the _Dragon's Breath_. So quickly did they row that not ten minutes later they were back on board, and the ship had already weighted anchor as its oars pulled it at top speed into the West.

Meanwhile, Pallando had turned his attention back to the Rhunlings, who lay moaning and trembling on the ground as the skeletons ambled amongst them, gibbering and grasping at them with their bony hands – though none of them made contact with the terrified men. Satisfied that he had made his point, Pallando pointed his staff at the skeletons, and spoke another Word. There was again a flash of light, and the skeletons disappeared forthwith, leaving the defeated Rhunlings crawling in the sand.

Pallando stared wordlessly at the Rhunlings for some minutes, as it slowly dawned on them that their supernatural foes had disappeared as suddenly and mysteriously as they had appeared. Then they stared at the blue-robed figure before them, who they realized had commanded both the attack and the retreat of the terrible army of the dead, and who held their fate in his hands.

All then pressed their heads into the dust as a gesture of obeisance; save one alone, who at length stood to his feet, clutching a large club that appeared to be made of driftwood. Pallando noted his appearance closely. He was of medium height and heavy build, with long, black, greasy hair and beard, olive skin, a broad face bearing a snubbed nose, and hard brown eyes. He was garbed in dirty grey firs, and bore a necklace that appeared to be made of wolf's teeth as his only adornment. He returned the Wizard's stare for only a moment, before looking to his Men and shouting at them in harsh, guttural phrases in his dialect of the tongue of Rhun; encouraging them as it seemed to pull themselves up from the ground and stand once again on their feet.

Pallando had read something of the tongue of the Rhunlings in an ancient scroll at Minas Anor, in which a long-dead scribe of Gondor had sought to translate into the Common Speech the most important words and phrases of a handful Rhunling captives taken in the War of the Last Alliance. The Rhunling before Pallando spoke in what seemed to be a different dialect of a language that clearly had not stood still for the past thousand years; thus, the Blue Wizard could not understand all of the Man's words. Still, he understood enough, and hoped that he could make himself understood to them in their own tongue.

"Who are you?" enquired Pallando, addressing the Rhunling with wolf's teeth necklace.

"I am the _karkhan_ chief, Targul-rakan!" said the Man, turning to the Wizard. "What name have you?"

"You may call me what you wish," replied Pallando.

"Perhaps I call you foreign dog?" grinned Targul-rakan.

"Have a care, o chief" frowned Pallando, gesturing with his staff."Have you forgotten so soon that the Dead rise at my command? I will not stay their wrath a second time."

The other Rhunlings quailed, and dropped to their knees again. Targul-rakan remained on his feet, but the grin faded from his black-bearded face, and he appeared chastened.

"Well said, outlander," replied Targul-rakan. "You are strong, not weak. _Bargash._ That is good. I name you Aral-rakan."

_Blue Lord_,thought Pallando. "I accept the name you have granted me, great Targul-rakan," he replied.

"Then tell me, Aral-rakan," said Targul-rakan. "What seek you in this land? No man comes here out of the West, but the Dor-win-on Men, to steal our fish, or the Gon-door Men, to slay our people. _Ulan-gher_!"

"I have come to offer you aid, o citizens of Rhun",replied Aral-rakan.

"Citizens?" glowered Targul-rakan. "Rhun? What say you?"

"Are you not Rhunlings?" asked Aral-rakan, puzzled.

"We are the Wolf Clan!" shouted Targul-rakan, and he proceeded to prove his kinship to the fell beasts of the wilderness by howling at the top of his lungs, grinning proudly when he had finished his demonstration.

"Ah. Excuse my error, great Targul-rakan,"replied the Blue Wizard.

_These people know not even the nation to which they belong, beyond their own tribe,_ he thought secretly. _My work will not be easy. _He returned this attention to the barbarian chief, who was now speaking of his own accord.

"…hate the Turtle Clan, hate the Bear Clan. Hate the towheads of the Northwest, of Dor-win-on," said Targul-rakan. "Hate the dogs of the Southwest, of Gon-door. Slay them all, if we could. Ulan-gher!We are the mighty Wolf Clan! We are the blood-drinkers, the widow-makers, feared by all!"

"No doubt all you say is true, Targul-rakan," replied Aral-rakan demurely"Yet do you truly hate the other Clans of your people? For surely you Men east of the Inland Sea are one folk, even if divided and scattered. Have you never made common cause with each other?"

"We are enemies!" spat Targul-rakan. "Not even in my father's father's time have we fought alongside the other Clans. Only in the days of the _Mordor-rakan_, the Dark Lord who was slain at the dawn of time, did we fight beside the other Clans against those dogs, the Gon-door men."

"Indeed,"frowned Aral-rakan. "And when you say you hate the Gondor-men – is it truly hate?" he continued. "Is it not envy?"

"En-vie?" repeated Targul-rakan, his black brows frowning as his mouth chewed on the strange word, which had no equivalent in his tongue. "What say you? We love, or we hate. I know not this en-vie."

"Would you not like to live as they do?" asked Aral-rakan. "To have fine houses of stone, rather than live under the sky? To tame horses, and ride them as they do? To have tools and weapons of steel…"

"Steel!" grinned Targul-rakan. "We know this word. Steel, the Gon-door men have. They have slain many of the Wolf-clan with it, many of my people, _gur-ghelan_. Steel makes the Gon-door men strong, very strong. We know not its secrets. Can you teach us?" He eyed the Wizard shrewdly. "Much in your debt will the Wolf Clan be if you teach us the secret of steel, Aral-rakan."

"Indeed," replied Aral-rakan, who could easily have read the barbarian's thoughts on this matter even if he had not seen directly into his mind. "But it is not merely of weapons I would teach you, great Targul-rakan. I will teach you the secret of steel, and other secrets besides – for a price."

"Name your price," replied Targul-rakan, spitting into the sand, and staring warily and this strange outlander, possessed of unknown powers. "What wish you, Aral-rakan? Women? Furs? Seashells? The heads of enemies?"

"None of these things," sighed Aral-rakan. "Rather, you must allow me to live with you, to live amongst your people for as long as I wish. And you and your shamans must listen to my words – for I will have many things to say to you, concerning how to better your lives. You wish for steel, and other things that the Gondor-men have? You will have them, and not through raiding and plunder, but through learning how to make them yourselves – if you accept my price."

The Men of the Wolf Clan stared at each other, and whispered darkly. Targul-rakan turned and snarled at them, raising his club in the air, and they cowed at his feet. Grunting with satisfaction, he turned back to the Wizard.

"Done, Aral-rakan!" he cried. He stooped to the ground, picked up a handful of sand, and threw it into the air. Aral-rakan stooped likewise, repeating his gesture.

"You have sealed the bargain!" grinned Targul-rakan. "Follow me, wise Aral-rakan. To the tents of the Wolf Clan I will take you."


	7. The Black Serpents of Umbar

**VII.) The Black Serpents of Umbar**

As the searing heat of midday set the dry air shimmering, and even the hardy date palms that lined the road seemed to wilt under the Sun's angry glare, Alatar, mounted on his tired steed, slowly approached the red sandstone walls that marked the Northern Gate of Umbar, southernmost bastion of the empire forged by the Gondor-men. He had ridden south for many weeks, through the pine woods of Ithilien, over the hard, barren lands of Harondor, and so to the sunkissed lands that never knew snow or frost; the groves of lemon and date trees that hugged the shore of turquoise Bay of Umbar. Now, the first stage of his southward journey through the lands east of Anduin was near an end.

Alatar drew close to the Northern Gate of the city, staring up at one of its adjacent watchtowers, which was dwarfed by a vast Gondorian banner bearing the design of the White Tree on its black field that flew from a pinnacle of the battlements. Turning his eyes back to the ground, he now found himself amid a crowd of carts and pedestrians toiling over the hot, dusty road, and was reminded of his first approach to Osgiliath ten years before. He noted that though a few bold setters from Gondor walked or rode amongst them, these Men were native Umbarians for the most part; like and yet unlike their northern kin. Their gaudy, flowing robes of flaxen cloth would alone have told them apart. Moreover, while in Gondor those of Numenorean descent had long intermarried with the hardy folk native to the lower valley of the Anduin, in Umbar the Men of Numenor had long mixed their blood with the tribes of the neighbouring Haradrim. Thus, while many of the Gondor-men now tended to a broader and more powerful build than that of the tall, slim Numenoreans, the Umbarians for the most part were lean and lanky, with narrow, hawk-like features, and skin that would have been bronze even had it never been seared by the heat of the southern Sun.

Alatar had noted the mode of speech of these Men as he passed south; they spoke a dialect that was akin to the Common Tongue, yet more archaic, and mixed with many words borrowed from the Haradrim and other southern tribes. The Umbarians could, when they wished, make it difficult for the Gondorians to understand them. That merely reinforced the dim view taken by the Men of Gondor of their Southron cousins; for the Umbarians, as descendents of the King's Men of Numenor, those who long ago had chosen to serve Sauron, were ancient blood-enemies of the kingdom of Isildur and Anarion. They chafed under the yoke placed on them by their hated Gondorian kinsmen, even as the Gondorians viewed them with a curious mixture of condescension, suspicion, and fear.

Turning his attention from these thoughts to the present, Alatar was forced to bring his steed to a sudden halt, as a group of Men in front of him, who had been walking on foot, was ordered to stop by the black tunic'd Gondorian soliders who manned the broad arched gate in the sandstone walls. It appeared that some sort of altercation was on the verge of taking place, for the party of half-a-dozen gaudily-dressed Umbarians stood shaking their fists and cursing at the soldiers, even as those soldiers had drawn their long steel swords, shouting threats and commands, and their comrades on the battlements above the gate took aim with their longbows at the Umbarians. Alatar viewed the scene with keen interest, though he had decided for the moment to watch rather than to intervene.

"Back!" shouted one of the Gondorian soliders. "Back, and fall in line as ordered!"

"Let us pass yonder, sirrah!" demanded one of the Umbarians, in a deep, resonant voice. He was a tall, lean man with an aquiline nose and a heavy scar running along his swarthy cheek, whose eyes were yet as grey as those of a Gondor-man, suggesting his own descent from the Men of Numenor. "We are citizens of Umbar all," continued the scar-faced man, "and need not thy let or leave to pass the gates of our own city!"

"Citizens of Umbar all, my foot!" shot back the soldier. "And you need my let or leave for whatever I say you need it for, see? We won't tolerate high and mighty talk from you damned pirates!"

"Thy father was a thief and a drunkard," jeered the Umbarian in reply, "and thy mother sold herself to beggars before she abandoned her gutter-dropped brat in an army tent!"

He was set to continue with his extraordinary, if fabricated account of the guard's paternity when his colourful slurs were interrupted by the approach of two-score heavily-armed Gondorian soldiers who had marched double-time from their barracks to the gate, and quickly surrounded the Umbarians, spears and shields at the ready. The Umbarians reached into the folds of their crimson and turquoise robes, ready to draw their short curved swords, when a sudden word from a young Gondorian officer halted them in their tracks.

"Is this your day to die?" asked the man, his white-plumed helmet gleaming in the harsh sunlight as he strode quickly through the gate. "Draw your swords, and it shall surely be so!"

The Umbarians glared at him hatefully for some moments, but then one-by-one withdrew their hands from their robes; defeated, and yet as wary and dangerous as jungle cats caught in a hunter's trap.

The officer, his grey eyes assessing them coldly, grunted, and the turned to the soldier who had been bandying words with his Umbarian foe. "Now then, corporal," snapped the officer, "what's with this ruckus? Our standing orders are not to interrupt the passage of men or goods through the gates, except for due cause."

"I'll tell you the cause right enough, sir," replied the solider, frowning as he nodded at the Umbarians. "A dozen years I've been stationed in this city, till my skin's burned near as dark as one of its native folk. And if I've learned one thing, it's how to spot an Umbarian from within the pale of our borders, from one of those Haradrim who live in the deserts beyond. I've seem enough of that lot on desert patrol to tell the difference."

"Get to the point, soldier," sighed the officer. "The Sun burns bright today, and I would rather return to the shade of the barracks than roast my skull under this steel helmet."

"The point, sir," said the soldier, with a trace of wounded pride, "is I'd bet my life and honour that only one of them fellows surrounded by our boys there is an Umbar-man! Aye, the one who shot his mouth off at me just before your arrival, sir. The rest are all Haradrim, sure as I live and breathe!"

The man he had designated as an Umbarian cursed under his breath, but remained silent. The others glared sullenly at the soldier, as the officer stared at them with alarm, before turning his gaze back to their antagonist.

"Haradrim! Are you sure, man?"

"Sure as I live and breathe, as I said sir!" replied the solider. "See how much darker they are than that uppity fellow, and how their features are even more sharp? That's the stamp of a Harad-man, sir, as any lad in our garrison can tell you."

The officer frowned, but said nothing. He had been posted at Umbar for less than six months, and had not bothered to learn much of its natives, wishing nothing more than to survive his posting long enough to arrange a transfer to the cooler lands that lay northward. He could hardly tell a Harad-man from an Elf; but, he felt it impolitic to make such an admission in front of his subordinates.

"Yes, I _do_ see now," replied the officer, with what he hoped was a sage tone. "Perhaps you're right, corporal."

"Indeed I am, sir," replied the corporal triumphantly. "And it's strictly against the King's law for a Harad-man to pass the walls of Umbar, is it not?"

"That it is," replied the officer, sniffing disdainfully as he glared at the brightly-clad imposters and their Umbarian spokesman. "The King has long forbidden Haradrim to pass these walls," announced the officer, as if explaining the matter to schoolchildren, "lest they act as spies, and use what information they can gather of the city's defenses to launch a successful raid on Umbar. Though I daresay that many of these Umbarian snakes would be perfectly willing to freely give whatever information they have to the Haradrim, purely out of spite for us."

"Sir," offered the scar-faced Umbarian, whom Alatar noted had licked his lips with a trace of apparent nervousness before speaking. "Mayhap this corporal's brain has been baked under his own helm, like bread in a clay oven, for no doubt he has stood under the hot Sun for many hours this day. But he speaks false. We are Umbar-men, one and all! Ask my brothers here to use the Common Tongue with you; no matter that their accent may seem strange to your ear, surely you shall know that they are Men of Umbar!"

"Indeed?" asked the officer, who was growing bored and impatient with the whole affair. "You've a sharper tongue than is good for you, I'll warrant, if you're bold enough to accuse one of the King's soldiers of a falsehood. But as for the citizenship of your fellows, and whether you are in fact a traitor to His Majesty, leading a pack of Haradrim within these walls; we'll leave that for the Magistrate to decide. Corporal, disarm these dogs, and march them double quick to the holding-pen nigh the courts! And inform the clerk there of the charges to bring against them."

In the blink of an eye, the accused Haradrim and their Umbarian comrade found spear-points held to their throats, as long arms reached into their robes and withdrew their wicked-looking short swords. Their arms were bound with rope, and they found themselves marched through the gates by the soldiers who had surrounded them, just as the officer had ordered. But as the scar-faced Umbarian passed by the officer and his corporal, he turned to them, his grey eyes glaring fiercely, and addressed them in a voice seething with hatred and malevolence:

"Dogs of Gondor!" he hissed. "Fear the serpent's shadow! Neither of you shall live out this night!" A cuff to the ear from one of the soldiers who had pushed him through the gates silenced him. Alatar noticed that while the officer yawned with manifest unconcern at an idle threat, before returning through the gate to the barracks, the corporal whose keen eyes had set in motion the whole affair turned pale, and whispered under his breath a furtive prayer to the Valar to protect him.

As the corporal and his comrades resumed their post by the gates, Alatar then slowly rode toward them. He showed them his letter of marque from the King, but to his surprise the soldiers seemed too enervated by the confrontation of moments before to pay it much heed, and the corporal waved him through cursorily.

"It appears_ I_ don't look like a Harad-man," muttered Alatar to himself as he rode through the gates and emerged once again into the light of the Sun. "It certainly would have been amusing if they had tried to arrest _me_." He considered the aspects of the scene he had just witnessed that were worth further enquiry, and then, duly noting them in his mind, he pressed forward into the narrow, twisting streets, riding past the mud-baked houses and shops and pillared sandstone mansions of Umbar.

Passing a crowd of pedestrians, he turned a corner, and found himself at the crest of a low, broad hill, which offered a sweeping view of the city and its environs. At the heart of the city was the vast, solid Citadel, built of white marble, which had been constructed by the Numenoreans two-thousand years before when they had first established Umbar as their chief southern colony on the coast of Middle Earth. It was here, according to the records Alatar had read in the archives of Minas Anor, that well-nigh twelve-hundred years ago Ar-Pharazon the Golden had taken council with his generals and admirals, before setting out on his ill-fated scheme of capturing and humiliating Sauron the Abhorred. Curiously, considering the events that had followed, the capture of Sauron by the legions of Numenor was remembered with pride by the Gondor-men. Indeed, casting his eye over the shimmering waters to the headland that sheltered the Bay of Umbar from the Western Sea beyond, Alatar could clearly see the mighty tower of smooth-sided marble, topped with a shining sphere of crystal, that the Gondorians had build shortly after incorporating Umbar into their empire in order to commemorate the so-called Great Victory over Sauron. After seeing the contemptuous attitude that the Gondorians apparently reserved for their Umbarian kin, Alatar half-wondered if the Gondorians had built the monument less out of commemoration for the false surrender of Sauron than to humiliate the Umbarians with a display of Gondor's own power.

Turning his attention back to the city, Alatar noted that the shifting maze of streets on its outskirts gave way to broad, straight roads nearer to the Citadel; ancient roads laid out by the Numenoreans, presumably, in the days before the city had grown haphazardly up the hill to touch its defensive outer walls. The roads converged on a large open space, which Alatar's keen eyes could see was crammed with stalls and pedestrians; the city's famed Central Market, full of exotic produce, sights and sounds that were no more than legends in the North of Middle Earth, yet were taken for granted by the Umbarians. "To the Market I shall go," said Alatar to no one in particular, "for there if anywhere I shall find the information I seek, so that I may plot the next stage of my journey."

"What information seek you, lord?" asked a small, high-pitched voice to Alatar's right. Glancing down with surprise from his steed, he noted a small boy of perhaps ten summers, dressed in dirty robes that had once been cream-coloured, whose features marked him as a young citizen of Umbar.

"What business is that of yours, my lad?" enquired Alatar evenly, though secretly he was intrigued by the boy's pluck in addressing a stranger mounted on a charger. He continued riding down the hill at a canter, as the boy jogged beside him.

"The city's business is my business, lord," winked the boy. "Carnir at your service."

"It's yet to be determined whether I require your service," replied Alatar, pursing his lips.

"Vast is this city, my lord," persisted Carnir. "Vast as the King's City away north, 'tis said, and 'tis said also that Umbar is far harder to navigate. Only halt your steed for a moment, my lord, and I can help you find whatever it is that you seek in Umbar."

Sighing, Alatar pulled back on his horse's reins, bringing the animal to a halt, while Carnir stood to the right of its head. "A fine steed, my lord," whispered Carnir, patting the animal's flank. "It must be worth many gold sovereigns."

"That's certainly no affair of yours," snapped Alatar. "In the name of the Valar, boy, say your piece, or else let me be on my way! I take no pleasure in sitting here and roasting under my too-heavy robes."

Carnir frowned for a moment, but soon a mischevious smile lit up has face. "For me to lead you to whomever you seek, lord," replied Carnir, "you must first tell me your business. You are not a Gondor-man, are you?"

"I am from a distant land, north and west of here," replied Alatar guardedly.

"An Arnor-man, then," grinned Carnir. "Thought as much, I did, though your kindred seldom visit us here in the Sunlands."

"And to satisfy the rest of your curiosity," replied Alatar, "I am a scholar, and my business involves learning what I can of this land and its customs - preferably from a sage, yet one who is in some part aware of the ebb and flow of life about him, of the current and rumoured deeds and doings of his people. Know you such a man, lad?"

"Ho ho, so you're a spy!" grinned Carnir triumphantly.

"Not at all, little one!" replied Alatar, dismayed that he could feel a surge of alarm at a question from a young boy. "Not at all! My interest in this land is purely scholarly, purely academic!"

"Aca-what?" frowned Carnir.

"Never mind what it means, ragamuffin!" rejoined Alatar, determined now to direct the conversation back to his terms. "Know you such a man or not?"

Carnir was quiet for some moments, but then his face broke again into a grin. "Aye, I know such a man, lord. Ulzor the Scribe, who dwells on the far side of the Central Market. He knows many strange things, 'tis said, yet his affairs lead him to traffic with the common run of men."

"Then lead me to this Ulzor," smiled Alatar, "and you shall have my gratitude, and my blessing as well, young Carnir."

"More even than these things," replied Carnir with an innocent air, "would your humble servant appreciate a firm token of his lordship's generosity."

Sighing, Alatar reached into his leather purse. He had stayed at a few inns along the road through the settled lands north of Umbar, and so thankfully had had the opportunity to exchange one of his gold sovereigns for a purseful of silver and copper pieces. Drawing out one of the coppers, he leaned down from his steed, and held it out to the boy for inspection.

"Aye!" cried the boy, snatching the copper with delight. "Thou art most generous, lord! I shall surely be thy guide." Alatar, who had seen enough of the Umbarians on his road south to have fully expected the boy to haggle for more coin, was surprised that he accepted so trivial a fee in exchange for a long, thirsty journey through the city's crowded, twisting alleys and long, busy streets. But the boy had already run ahead, down the winding road that led into the labyrinth of streets at the base of the hill, and Alatar spurred his steed to a brisk trot in order to avoid losing sight of his diminutive guide.

As he wound his way through the narrow, twisting streets and alleys, led always by Carnir through the crush of men and women making their way to and fro, Alatar was struck again by the exotic quality of Umbar; as civilized as Gondor, and in part akin to it, yet strangely alien, as if when he had crossed the river Harnen on his road south he had entered into another world. Where the Gondor-men were silent and somber for the most part, the Umbar-men seemed constantly to be talking and gesturing to each other, animated by a frantic pulse of heat and motion that was the life-blood of this southernmost of cities. And where the Gondor-women were shy and modest, the women of Umbar were even more talkative than their men, and offered many eloquent curses and raucous catcalls that would have utterly shocked one of the stolid citizens of Osgliliath.

Indeed, Alatar's own curiosity soon turned to shock. For, as they rounded yet another corner into a long, straight road, Carnir looked back at him, and with a wicked grin said, "Now, lord, we have come to the Quarter of Little Virtue, that lies on this hither side of the Market. Does my lord wish to tarry awhile?"

Alatar looked about with astonishment at the many raven-haired young women, clothed scantily in garish frocks and dresses, who stood in the doorways of the mud-bricked houses of the road, gesturing meaningfully to male passersby, who responded to the women sometimes with crude jeers and curses, and sometimes by accompanying them into their houses. When Alatar found himself on the receiving end of several solicitations, he turned his gaze skyward, trying desperately to maintain his Wizardly dignity, and ordered Carnir in no uncertain terms to bear him straight to Ulzor the Scribe as he had agreed. Looking vaguely disappointed, though not entirely surprised, Carnir nodded, and proceeded to guide his mysterious charge through the bustling crowds toward the market, shocking Alatar even more by exchanging cheerful curses and insults with the women lining the street as he did so.

"_There's _something one would never see in Gondor," whispered Alatar to himself.

At length, passing out of the infamous quarter, they came to the threshold of the Central Market. This was like the market at Osgiliath in its general plan, yet fully five times the span of that market in length and width, full of traders, vendors and pedestrians, and crowded to the brim with literally thousands of stalls, bearing all manner of goods from the coasts of Gondor to the jungles of Far Harad. Strange spices and incenses, fruits and meats, robes and carpets, tools and works of metal and of wood, gemstones and flowers, ebon carvings and ivory tusks, all these things and many more were on display, amid an incessant din of haggling and shouting that surged and ebbed across the Market like the tidewaters of the Bay of Umbar.

Sticking close to Carnir, Alatar dismounted his steed, which he could not ride safely through such a labyrinth of narrow alleys and such a press of men, and led the animal by its reins with his left hand, while grasping his crystal staff with his right hand. He and Carnir negotiated their way across the Market to its farther, southern side, which lay nigh to the towering white Citadel, which Alatar could now see bore from one of its towers a banner of Gondor identical to that at the Northern Gate. As Carnir pushed his way through the crowd, he returned in equal measure the curses that the men that he jostled directed at him, and Alatar wondered at his courage in thus addressing his elders, any one of whom could have given him a sound thrashing if they had wished.

Finally, after more than two hours time negotiating the alleys of the Market, with the Sun progressing on its journey down into the West, Alatar and Carnir reached the far side, where the streets were a little less crowded than amid the stalls, so that Alatar remounted his steed. He then continued to follow the seemingly tireless Carnir, as the boy led him some distance to the south and west, away from the Citadel, and toward the warren of craftsmen's manufactories and warehouses that lay between the Citadel and the shore of the harbour. Carnir turned at last into a narrow alley between two warehouses, and indicated a wooden sign, engraved in the shape of a quill and an inkpot, which hung above a narrow doorway whose wooden shutters were thrown open, and which like many of the doorways of Umbar was veiled by a frill of colourful beads laced together on strings.

"The shop of Ulzor the Scribe!" beamed Carnir triumphantly. "You see, lord, I have led you hither through many snares and delays."

"So you have," replied Alatar dryly, "though it seems to me that not a few of the delays were due to your exercise of your own sharp tongue. But no matter. Take this second copper piece as your reward, and then be off with you."

Delighted, the boy took the coin and ran back to the Market, while Alatar dismounted, tying the reins of his horse to a peg mounted into the wall adjacent to the door of the shop. He pushed through the frill covering the doorway, and stood leaning on his staff and blinking for a moment, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light of the squalid little room, which was lit only by a single candle of tallow perched on the edge of a rickety wooden desk.

"A dark room for a scribe's work," said Alatar aloud.

"And yet light enough for my purposes," replied an aged, soft voice from the far side of the room. "Please, my lord, be seated on one of yon cushions in front of my desk, and make yourself as comfortable as you may."

Nodding, Alatar strode across the dingy room in two paces. He seated himself on an old straw-stuffed cushion that had seen better days, laying his staff on his lap, and staring with interest at the grey-bearded figure that sat cross-legged on a cushion behind the desk that separated them. The elderly man's black robes were a curious contrast to the gaudy dress favoured by his fellow Umbarians.

"Welcome, stranger from distant lands," continued the man, as he swept aside some inkpots and a few scrolls to clear a space on the desk in front of his guest. "I am Ulzor the Scribe. I see my little friend has led you hither. How may I be of service to you?"

"I seek information on certain matters," replied Alatar directly.

"I am but a humble scribe, my lord," demurred the man, in his soft, almost sibilant voice.

"Carnir says that you are a sage, and yet also aware of the deeds of men about you. Is that not so?" asked Alatar.

A smile flickered briefly across Ulzor's sallow face, as his dark eyes regarded the blue-robed stranger before him. "Aye, there is some truth to the lad's words," replied Ulzor. "I may be counted a sage by some, after my own fashion. Ask me what you will, and I shall do my best to assist you, in so far as a lowly commoner such as myself may be of assistance to a great lord, for such I perceive you to be."

"Then I shall begin with the first question that interests me," replied Alatar. "What is meant by the phrase, 'Fear the serpent's shadow'?"

Ulzor froze for a moment. Then, slowly, his body relaxed, though his voice now had a more wary air than before.

"Where have you heard such a strange phrase, my lord?" enquired the scribe. "It is not known to me."

"Do not dissimulate with me, scribe," replied Alatar forcefully, as he stared at Ulzor. Ulzor then noticed for the first time how the colour of this stranger's eyes shifted between varying shades of blue, and began to feel vaguely disquieted by his presence.

"Perhaps you need some manner of refreshing your memory?" enquired Alatar conversationally.

"No, my lord," replied Ulzor with a sullen air. "Now that I recall - at my age, memory does not function as well as it once did – now that I recall, perhaps I _have _heard the phrase before."

"And you know why it would strike fear into the heart of a man, even a soldier of Gondor?" asked Alatar.

Ulzor remained silent for a moment, and then replied "You tread on dangerous ground, stranger. Some stones are better left unturned, lest you stir what lies beneath."

"You might say I am a turner of stones by profession," replied Alatar. "And if that which lies beneath is not fit to endure the clean light of the Sun and Moon, all the more reason to expose it. Now I will ask you this question again, and I expect your answer. What does this phrase mean, and why would it strike fear even into the soldiers of Gondor?"

After some moments of silence, Ulzor replied "Soldiers of Gondor? Gondor imagines itself the master of this land. But there was a power that dwelt here, amongst many other places, long before Gondor was first imagined. And to those who recognize that power, the serpent is its token."

"I see," replied Alatar contemplatively. "The Black Serpent of Umbar, and before that of Numenor, in the final days before its fall. And there are still Men of Umbar under its influence, who strike at the Gondor-men by stealth and treachery, no doubt? And that is what is meant by the phrase, "Fear the serpent's shadow'?"

"You have guessed as much yourself, I deem," said Ulzor curtly.

"Indeed I have," said Alatar evenly. "And more besides. Despite your humble appearance, I for my part deem you a lord in your own right. You are descended from those lords of Umbar who ruled this land before its annexation by Gondor, and who trace their ancestry to the King's Men of Numenor. And you are also high placed in this Cult of the Black Serpent. Moreover you have instructed the boy Carnir to lead inquisitive foreigners to you, so that you may determine if they are spies who pose a threat to your schemes, or if they may prove useful pawns. Is that not so?"

Ulzor gave the Wizard a venomous look, but remained silent. He knew well that Gondor often hired foreigners as spies, on the hope that they might arouse fewer suspicions than would spies who were obviously Gondor-men. Now he began to realize to his displeasure that this outlander was no ordinary agent of Gondor whom Carnir had led into his shop, to feed with falsehoods or poisons as the case might require.

"Well, you need not fear that I will betray your secret to the Gondor-men," continued Alatar. "I swear by the Valar that I have not come here to deliver you to the executioner, but rather to help turn you and your kindred, and your distant cousins the Haradrim, away from the darkness and toward to the light."

"The light?" spat Ulzor. "And what light is that?"

"You know full well I refer to that light which dwells ever in the uttermost West," replied Alatar.

"The uttermost West?" sneered Ulzor, who no longer attempted to dissimulate. "Fool! 'Tis plain thou art no more than a lackey of the Valar, and what have those high and mighty lords ever cared for the fate of Men? It is to them we owe the fall of proud Numenor, and our exile in these outer lands."

"It is to the pride and folly of your ancestors, and the lies of Sauron the Abhorred, that you owe your fate," chided Alatar, his blue eyes narrowing in disapproval of Ulzor's blasphemy, and at his disrespectful use of the familiar form of address.

"Speak not thus of the Dark Lord!" cried Ulzor, rising up from his cushions, and reaching under his robes with his hand. "It is thou who blaspheme against Sauron, Lord of Middle Earth and King of Men!"

"_Sit_ _down and be silent!"_ replied Alatar forcefully, gesturing with his staff.

"Dost thou think thy shabby tricks are stronger than the powers of the Black Art, conjuror?" laughed Ulzor, and Alatar's eyes widened as he pulled a wickedly curved dagger from beneath his robes. "Die now!" he cried, lunging at the Wizard with a speed that belied his age.

Alatar could scarcely conceal his shock at Ulzor's resistance to his own Wizardly power. Had he been an ordinary Man himself, his throat would have been slit from ear to ear by Ulzor's curved blade. But his reflexes were faster than mortal eye could see; with lightning speed, he swung his staff upwards, knocking the dagger out of the man's hand. Ulzor gasped with pain as the Wizard then leapt out of his seat, dealing a reverse blow with the crystal staff that sent him crashing to the ground. Alatar planted the base of his staff on the back of the man's neck, and one of his black leather boots on the small of his back, while waiting for his defeated adversary to recover his wits.

"Peace!" Ulzor hissed at last, raising his hands off the dirt floor in supplication. "_Inzullo_r, I deem you in our tongue of old, for you are both strange and powerful. If I have offended you, lord, yet I beg you to spare my life. Though I count myself a mage, it seems I have gravely underestimated your skill."

"And I yours," admitted Alatar, still regarding the man warily. "I never imagined that one of your kind could resist my powers, yet you brushed aside my commands as if they were nothing. Was this ability granted to you by your Black Art?"

"It might have been, lord," whispered Ulzor sullenly. "Those of us who have trained our wills to mastery of the minds of others are not so easily tamed ourselves."

"So it would seem," replied Alatar. "Perhaps I should learn more of your Black Art, so that it offers me no further surprises."

"Yet I must die before I teach you any of our Art, lord," said Ulzor, as the Wizard felt the scribe's body stiffen underneath his boot. "I am sworn to secrecy. The swift sting of death would be a small penalty indeed, compared to the torments that would await me at the hands of my brethren if I revealed even the least secret of our Art to the uninitiated. And it would only be a matter of time before they learned that I had betrayed my oath."

"Peace!" replied Alatar, lifting the grip of both staff and boot from Ulzor. "You may refer to me as Inzullor if you wish, by the by. Rise now and return to your seat, and we shall continue our discussion as one mage to another."

Slowly, Ulzor raised himself up, nodded, and returned to his seat behind the table. He felt both resentment at his defeat by this extraordinary stranger, and an odd delight at being addressed by him as if he were his equal. The Wizard resumed his own seat, once again laying his staff across his lap, and resumed a contemplative air, as if nothing had transpired between them.

"I gather you are not the leader of your Cult?" offered Inzullor – for so he now thought of himself.

"Our Cult, as you call it, has no leader," replied Ulzor. "Nor have we any master plan. We cannot afford for all our secrets and all our members to be disclosed to the Gondorians, simply because a single man in whom we entrusted supreme leadership had the ill fate of falling into their hands as a prisoner. We have only various degrees of initiates, who all carry out their own plans according to their own measure, in order to prosecute our struggle against the Gondorians. I am one of the supreme grade, but there are others."

"Well. In any case, I am indeed curious to learn more of your Black Art," replied Inzullor, narrowing his blue eyes. "You might say I am a scholar of such matters."

"I thought you were a turner of stones," replied Ulzor, though he swiftly bit his lip as the Wizard's black eyebrows lowered disapprovingly. "Ah, merely a jest, though perhaps in poor taste," he continued. "But I cannot initiate one who does not submit himself in body and soul to our master, Lord Sauron the Great."

"And I for my part shall do no such thing," replied Inzullor

"Then it seems we are at an impasse," concluded Ulzor, shrugging his shoulders.

Inzullor remained silent for a few moments. He could read the surface of this Man's mind easily enough, yet beneath were many dark chambers that were closed to his sight. Not without great difficulty would he be able to wrest from Ulzor the secrets of the Black Art against his will.

Then the Wizard smiled shrewdly. "Well, my dear scribe," he said, "so be it. You can offer me no further help, it seems. Save in one matter. Perhaps you can tell me where I might find the Courts of Justice used by the Gondor-men in this city?"

Ulzor shrank back, his suspicions flaring anew, but Inzullor raised his hands, palms outwards. "Peace, Ulzor! I did not mean to threaten you. Your secrets shall remain safe; not by my inclination, now that I learn more of your Cult and its deeds, but because I gave you my sworn oath by the Valar not to betray you to the executioner's axe. Such an oath I cannot undo, for I have sworn it by a Power greater than myself."

Ulzor glared sullenly at the Wizard, but nodded. "It seems beyond my power to hinder you, Inzullor, in any event," he hissed. "No man has ever knocked my knife from my hand before, nor thrown me to the ground, not since I became an initiate in our Art. So be it. Follow yonder alley back to the main road, and skirt the hither side of the Citadel to its southern wall. There are the pens where the prisoners are kept, and the square where they are judged in the open, and face punishment if deemed guilty. That square serves as the courts of this city. All of that quarter is heavily guarded by the Gondor-men, as you shall soon discover."

"No doubt," replied Inzullor, rising to his feet and bowing his head slightly. "The Gondor-men are vigilant enough in their own fashion. Well, good afternoon to you, Ulzor of Umbar. I fear you are too deeply mired in the snares of the Enemy for me to redeem you, and so you must remain bound to that fate which you have chosen. Yet I will offer you a parting word of advice; should you ever meet any of my kindred from the West, who bear robes and staves alike to mine, treat them with better manners than you have shown me. Particularly he who is robed in White; _he_ would take _most_ unkindly to any of your gibes or jests, and that would be the worse for you." And with that, Inzullor turned around and strode from the dusky room, the footfalls of his steed soon echoing down the alley outside as he journeyed toward the Citadel.

Ulzor brooded in silence for long hours afterwards, as the shadows of the afternoon lengthened into the sultry evening. "So," he whispered to himself at last, "the Valar once again make their gambit for dominion over this Middle Earth, and this Inzullor is but one of their heralds. No matter." He smiled grimly. "They have come too late."

* * *

Shrouded in the inky blackness of the Southern night, Ibal of Umbar rattled his chains again,and cursed his bitter fate. He and his companions, brave Haradrim whom he had picked for this mission himself, were shackled to a pillory amid the square south of the Citadel that served as both law-court and place of punishment for the city of Umbar. That very afternoon he had been tried and convicted of treason, and his companions of espionage. Now they all awaited an appointment with the executioner's axe at the light of dawn. Already the Moon, white and mocking, was beginning to sink into the West, and pale light glimmered on the horizon to the East – the last dawn that Ibal would ever seen.

Again and again, his mind raced over the plan that had gone so badly astray. It had seemed simple enough. He had selected from a tribe of Haradrim nomads who dwelt in the sands a week's march east of the city several young warriors whose command of the Common Tongue, though limited, should have been sufficient to pass them off as citizens of Umbar, albeit with their skin burnt darker than most. He would lead them through the gates, and then set them to work at their task; assessing the gates, towers, barracks, citadel and Gondorian soldiers of Umbar. They were to determine by their expert reckoning how many Haradrim warriors would be necessary to besiege the city, and the most promising points of attack for them to pursue so that they could annihilate its garrison before reinforcements arrived from Gondor. Chieftains of more than a dozen tribes of the Haradrim had pleged their warriors to such a venture; for even if they could not ultimately prevent the recapture of Umbar by the legions of Gondor, at least they could offer a gesture of solidarity with their ancient allies, the Men of Umbar, and inflict a humiliation on their ancient enemies, the hated Gondorians.

But alas, Ibal had underestimated the vigilance of the Gondorian garrison. Had the guards on the gate been fools to a man, like that wretched officer who had dispatched Ibal and his comrades to judgment, then it would have been easy enough to slip into the city undetected. But that accursed corporal had been an old hand in Umbar, and he was no fool. It was thanks to him, chiefly, that Ibal's scheme had failed. Ibal relected ruefully that for all his skill in the lesser aspects of the Black Art – poisoning and assassination, sedition and blackmail – and for all his diligent study of the esoteric principles that lay behind the Art, he had little power to make good his threats of doom against the corporal and his officer as long as he remained a prisoner.

Perhaps a higher-level initiate could have used subtle wiles to escape captivity, but it was beyond his own skill. Even if he could have freed himself from his shackles, as well as freeing his fellow captives, they would have great difficulty evading the numerous Gondorian watchmen who guarded the exits from the square. Nor could he hope for rescue by one of his fellow initiates in the path of the Black Serpent, for they all operated independently, pursuing their own schemes on their own initiative so that the capture of one would not lead to the ruin of all. Ibal was on his own.

Suddenly, to his surprise, he heard the scrape of booted feet over the hard stones of the courtyard. Looking up, he swore aloud, as he saw the armoured form of the very officer who not a day before had stood by the South gate of Umbar, and condemned Ibal and his men to captivity and judgment!

"Hast thou come to gloat at helpless prisoners, dunghill rat?" hissed Ibal at the officer, as the Haradrim captives stirred to wakefulness, and cursed the man in their own guttural tongue. "Coward!" cried Ibal. "Thou hast already led us to the scaffold. Remove my shackles and cast aside thy sword, and thou shalt see which one of us is the true man, and which the lowly cur!"

"Peace," whispered the man in a soft, mellow voice, as he made a curious gesture with his hands. "Keep your voices down, or you will alert the guards. I am here to talk with you, not to gloat at your plight."

Ibal stared in astonishment as, before his eyes, the image of the officer faded and took on another form entirely! Before him stood a tall, black-bearded Man, wearing robes and hat that seemed to be blue (thought it was hard to tell in the dim light), and bearing a staff of some sort in his right hand. The Haradrim ceased their cursing and fell silent, staring at the Man now with wonder and fear.

"What manner of jinn art thou?" whispered Ibal. "Or art thou, truly, an initiate of my Order come to our rescue? Nay, it is beyond hope!"

"I am neither," replied the figure, "though you should know that by the same token I am no servant of Gondor. As to your rescue; whether I aid in that has yet to be determined, and depends entirely on your answers to my questions. The Gondor-men have judged you according to their own laws, and it is not my place to interfere, unless in doing so I serve a higher purpose."

"And what purpose is that?" scowled Ibal, regarding this stranger now with wariness. Despite his captivity, he had the disturbing feeling that he had been lifted out of the frying pan, merely to be cast into the fire. "And why should I answer any of thy questions? Thou hast not even told me thine name, and it may be thou shalt leave me to my fate even should I parley with thee."

"You may call me Inzullor," replied the Man. "And I would advise you to address me with more respect, or I shall indeed leave you forthwith to endure your fate."

"Granted," replied Ibal sullenly. He was in no position to turn away even the chance of a rescue, whatever price was to be paid for it. "I shall not ask you how you evaded the guards," continued Ibal, "but I shall ask before you query me; what are your purposes, and what is your business with me?"

"My higher purposes need not be revealed to you at present," replied Inzullor evenly. "But my immediate purposes concern you and your fellow captives. I seek guides who will lead me as far into Harad as I wish. And I seek a guide of another sort, one who will teach me the secrets of the Black Art, whether they be found in his own memory or in hidden scrolls of lore, so that I may use those secrets as I please, without his imposing any initiation on me."

"Thou art mad!" spat Ibal. "The Haradrim suffer not strangers in their camps. Even Umbarians such as myself venture in their lands at our peril, and we are their kin and allies of old. It is not easy even for us to gain their trust." The Haradrim captives stirred, and stared venomously at Inzullor, but remained silent.

"Yet you have done so," replied Inzullor. "These men accept you as their leader."

"Aye, and what of it?" replied Ibal. "That does not mean you could succeed in such a venture. And as for the Black Art; I know nothing of it. Think you I would lie captive here if I did?"

"That means merely that you are not one of the highest initiates," replied Inzullor. Ibal frowned at the realization that this man knew more of the Black Serpents and their ways than an outlander should. "But you may still have things of value to teach me concerning this art," continued Inzullor, "and there may be formulas or incantations that you have learned, and which you do not truly understand, but whose deeper meaning shall be apparent to me once I have heard them."

"I say again, I know nothing of the Black Art," said Ibal stubbornly.

"And I say, do not seek to deceive me," replied Inzullor. "I witnessed your arrest at the gate this morning, and know that it is more than likely that a scheme such as you and these Haradrim have fashioned would have its origin in one of the devotees of the Black Serpent. And those who follow the Serpent's path act alone; thus you, as leader of this ragged little band, are surely a member of that cult yourself, and the failed plan to infiltrate this city was of your own devising."

Ibal frowned, and did not answer, though he wondered how the stranger could see anything so small in the darkness of the courtyard.

"So you no longer deny it," replied Inzullor. "Good."

"Even if I could lead you amongst the Haradrim, and convince them to give you safe conduct," said Ibal at length, "still I would not teach you anything of the Black Art. It is forbidden."

"I understand," replied Inzullor patiently. "You fear retribution from the other members of your cult, if they learn of your transgression. But you would do better to fear the headsman's axe; for that is what you will face on the morrow, if you do not agree to my terms. And besides, it may be that I have some lore of my own that I can teach you in exchange for your assistance - provided that I am satisfied you have turned your heart from the path of darkness, and onto a better road."

"Why should you with to learn the Black Art, outlander?" asked Ibal, changing the subject. "It is not to be trifled with. The more a Man studies it, the less of a Man he remains. It is not a study for the faint of heart."

"I am not lacking in courage," replied Inzullor. "And I will tell you frankly that I seek to learn the secrets of the Enemy's Art, so that I may turn it against him; or at the least, so that I may not be taken unawares by its wiles."

"The Enemy?" spat Ibal. "Thus have the Gondor-men ever referred to our Lord. You are cut from the same cloth as them, surely, even if you are not their servant. And whatever powers you may think you possess, to the Dark Lord you are no more than a gnat."

"We shall see," replied Inzullor dryly. "I think he would deem me a greater threat than that, should he become aware of my presence. Nor do I stand alone. But that is not your affair. I am not here to turn you from the worship of Sauron – for the moment, that is – but to enlist your aid for the purposes I have set forth. We can deal with your enlightenment later. Now, do you accept my terms, or not?"

"I accept that you are surely a madman," replied Ibal. "Even if you can free me and my comrades from captivity, and even if I lead you safely into the farthest reaches of Harad, neither of us shall live long if I reveal to you even the least secrets of the Black Art, while you blaspheme He who is its Author and Master."

"Master of that Art he may be," replied Inzullor, "but he is the author of nothing. The powers that he uses for his purposes are older and stronger than himself, and of their true nature I deem he knows less than he believes. He has not the power to create anything, merely to bend things to his will. And as for you," finished Inzullor curtly, "unless you think Sauron the Deceiver will save you from the scaffold tomorrow, you would do well to reconsider my proposal. This is the last chance I shall offer you for your redemption."

Ibal frowned, again, and for some moments he was silent, his agile mind racing over the risks and possibilities of the path that was laid out before him by the cryptic Inzullor. Then, at last, he nodded his head reluctantly. "Aye," he replied dourly, "so be it. I accept your offer – provided that you remain willing to teach me some of your own lore, if indeed you have a store of it as you claim."

"I do," replied Inzullor. "And I shall teach you some of it in return for yours, on the conditions that I have set out to you."

"Then it is agreed upon," concluded Ibal.

"Can this foreign dog be trusted?" spat one of the Haradrim, staring hard at Ibal. "He has slandered our Lord of old! And hark ye, we wish not for foreigners to trespass our lands."

"Hold your tongue!" shot back Ibal, and the man bowed his head, though his eyes still showed a fierce gleam. "We have no choice but to trust him, for the present."

"True enough," replied Inzullor briskly. "Now, all of you, be quiet, and _don't_ argue or interrupt! I must tax my powers considerably to accomplish my purposes; your part is simply to do as I say, quickly and without comment! Do you understand?"

"Aye," replied Ibal, and with some reluctance the Haradrim echoed his agreement.

Inzullor began to chant softly, and as his voice grew louder the tip of his staff began to glow azure. The captives were silent now, their initial fear of this strange outlander once again stirring in their hearts.

Inzullor spoke a Word, and pointed at the captives with his staff. A blue spark shot from Ibal's manacles, and as they fell from his arms and legs with a dull clang, the spark leapt from captive to captive, until within a few moments all the captives were free!

They rose warily, stretching their aching limbs, striding away from the pillory so that they stood in a row in front of their rescuer, and awaiting Inzullor's next move. His staff was glowing even more brightly now, and Ibal began to fear it would soon attract the attention of the guards who stood outside the broad square, or those who stood watch from the battlements of the Citadel.

Inzullor then held his staff up to the sky, and spoke another Word. There was a sudden flash as of lighting which for an instant illuminated the entire square and much of the Citadel, though no sound accompanied it.

"Thou fool!" cried Ibal. "This light thou hast conjured up has betrayed us all to our doom! The Gondor-men will be on us in moments."

"Thou art the fool," snapped Inzullor. "Have you not eyes to see with?"

Ibal blinked, and suddenly realized that Inzullor had once again taken the form of a Gondorian officer. Yet to his even greater surprise, he and his Haradrim comrades appeared now in the guise of Gondorian soldiers, from their pale faces to the black tunics! The Haradrim muttered in fear at this sorcery, though even now they took their lead from Ibal.

"You see?" replied Inzullor, and Ibal nodded. "Quickly now, stand in line, and speak not! Do as I do, and we shall soon evade the watch. Form up in a column behind me."

They did so, just as a clattering of iron-shod boots echoed across the square from its eastern exit, which stood closest to the pillory. Within moments, a score of spear-bearing Gondorian soldiers were confronting Inzullor and the erstwhile captives.

"Ho, sir!" said a sergeant, hailing Inzullor, who he naturally took as an officer of the watch. "Did you see that strange light? We were glancing across the square, and it seemed to us that the captives were freed from their chains!"

"Yet you can see it is not so," replied Inzullor, with a perfect Gondorian accent. He gestured toward the pillory; and there, under the waning moonlight, the Gondor-men could clearly see the shadowy forms of the captives, still chained and awaiting their fate.

"Bless me, but our eyes have been playing tricks on us," said the sergeant, shaking his steel-helmed head. "Yet surely you saw that light at least, sir?"

"I did," replied Inzullor, "but it was no more than one of those strange flashes of light that oft illuminate the Southlands on a balmy night such as this, or so 'tis said. I am but

newly arrived at this post myself."

"Aye, that's right, sir," replied one of the Gondorian soliders, standing next to his sargeant. "Heat-lightening, it's called, though that's the largest such flash I've ever seen."

"Don't speak out of place!" barked the sergeant, and the man immediately fell silent. The sergeant then frowned, and turned again to the seeming officer before him.

"But might I asked what you're doing here, sir?" asked the sergeant. "This square is supposed to be closed-off during the night, and you're not part of the regular night watch."

"I am but newly attached to the night watch," replied Inzullor. "I decided to split up my unit of men, and I sent some under a corporal to patrol by the docks, while I take this squad on patrol across this square towards the East gate, then back to the Citadel. But is that your business, sergeant?"

"Well, not directly sir," said the sergeant bashfully. "It's my job to keep this part of this square under watch at night…"

"But not to question officers, I'll wager," replied Inzullor. "Now back to your post. We'll follow, and continue past you on our patrol route."

"Very good, sir," replied the sergeant, giving a brisk salute, right arm held up to his right breast, before turning his men about-face and marching them back to the eastern exit from the square. Inzullor and his men followed, and soon they had passed the eastern exit themselves.

"Quickly now, we must be through the gates before dawn!" whispered Inzullor, as they hurried down a broad thoroughfare that led to the Eastern gate. "And we'll need steeds as well. I had to turn my own loose by the fountain near the Citadel, for he has led a sheltered life, and isn't fit to survive a long journey over the desert."

At length, just before the cusp of dawn, they arrived at their destination. A high, clear horn sounded from the citadel, and by the action of a hidden mechanism the gate slowly opened with a groan, as two soldiers exited from the nearby barracks to assume their position on the morning watch.

"You there!" shouted Inzullor at the men. "My subordinates and I are on an important mission. Bring us horses, with saddles, provender-bags and water-flasks, at once!"

"Yes sir!" they replied, turning about face toward the stables. Within a few minutes they had returned, bearing the saddled horses as ordered – tough, wiry brutes used for expeditions along the frontiers of Umbar and onto the margins of the desert sands.

"Very good!" cried Inzullor, as he and his men hurriedly mounted their steeds. "Assume your positions at the gate, then! We don't want any unauthorized persons to sneak through."

"Right away, sir!" they cried, as Inzullor and his captives rode through the gates. The guards wondered at the strange smiles with which their mounted comrades favoured them before they spurred their steeds to a gallop and disappeared from sight.

They had journeyed perhaps a mile or so outside the city, though groves of date and pomegranate trees, when the Sun rose fully above the eastern horizon, and the sky quickly turned from pale to bright azure.

"The Sun rises swiftly in these Southern lands," noted Inzullor. Just then, a sudden clanging of horns and drums echoed from the distant Citadel, and was repeated from the nearer gate, which Inzullor could vaguely hear snap shut with a sharp clang. Just as suddenly, he, Ibal and the Haradrim ceased to look like Gondorian soldiers, and resumed their true forms; Inzullor garbed in blue, bearing his crystal staff, and the others bare apart from their loincloths, for their gaudy robes had been taken from them in captivity. The Haradrim muttered approvingly at the resumption of their true form.

"The illusion dissolved at dawn," said Inzullor in reply to Ibal's enquiring gaze. "We must ride swiftly now, for they know that you have escaped. The shadowy forms that appeared chained to the pillory in your stead will have dissolved now like mist."

"I owe you thanks," admitted Ibal grudgingly, and the Haradrim grunted their assent. "How far to you wish to ride?" continued Ibal.

"As far as I may," replied Inzullor. "I am already well South; so I may ride East now, for a good many leagues. A place amongst the Haradrim, yet far out in the wilds, will serve my purposes."

"First I will lead these lads to their homes, which are but a week's journey from here,"  
replied Ibal, gesturing before him. They had mounted a crest in the road, and the groves that stretched east of the city were now rapidly giving way to a flat, sandy desert, that stretched as far into the East as the eye could see.

"Amongst their tribe we will renew our stores of food and water, as well as proper clothes for me," continued Ibal, "for my skin already burns under this hot Sun, and these saddlebags do not contain nearly enough provender to sustain us across the wastes of Harad. Next I shall take you to a dry well in the desert, in which is hidden one of our copies of the Scrolls of Sauron. With it you and I shall fulfil our bargain. Then we may journey eastward over the sands to the Ivory Hills, which lie many leagues East and some ways South of here. That land is beyond the desert, and full of food and water, but still touches on the lands of the Haradrim, and so is a fitting place to dwell if you wish to live in the wild for a time."

"That sounds a reasonable scheme to me," replied Inzullor. "I see you mean to hold to your word, then."

"We Umbar-men are not without our own sense of honour, whatever the Gondor-men may say of us," replied Ibal. "Though I'll admit honour may mean little to those of us who become proficient in the Art…but, in any case, my curiosity about your own lore-mastery, which appears mighty indeed, counts for as much as my word in my decision to guide you where you will."

"So be it," nodded Inzullor.

"And by the by, these steeds aren't fit for more than a short journey across the desert," continued Ibal. "When we arrive at the nomads' camp, we'll have to trade them for camels."

"What on earth is a camel?" frowned Inzullor. Unlike his fellow Wizard Aiwendil the Brown, he had not bothered to acquire more than a cursory acquaintance with the flora and fauna of Middle Earth.

"You do indeed have much to learn, for all your hidden lore," smiled Ibal grimly, as he stared at Inzullor with his hard grey eyes. "You'll soon be so familiar with those beasts that you'll wish you'd never heard the name."


	8. Beyond the Sea of Rhun

**VIII.) Beyond the Sea of Rhun**

On the lowermost battlements of the Eastern tower of Carach Angren, the basalt-walled Towers of the Teeth that guarded the Haunted Pass into Mordor, Bergond and Huor leaned on their spears, their black tunics blowing in the chill breeze of early spring as they gazed southward into the dead lands that stretched before them.

"This is what we get for being late for parade," sighed Bergond, his youthful face lined with recent cares. "It's your fault, Huor. You convinced me to go out for a night on the town, and who could say no the taverns of Pelargir when offered an invitation? And then we both got proper drunk, we did, and on account of that we were late. 'Think so lightly of your duty, lads?' asked the officer-on-parade. 'Perhaps the soft lands hereabouts have softened both of you. A year on the frontiers of the Black Land will toughen you up!' And now here we are, and still ten months of our tour to go. Ten months manning the oars on a galley would be better…"

"Will you _never_ stop goin' on about that, lad?" growled Huor, rubbing his thumb across his brown-bearded chin. "You're of age, not a stripling; you went carousing with me because you wanted to, not because I made you. And so what if that cursed officer did send us to the worst posting in all the lands ruled by the King; that's just our lot. Grousing about it won't make our time here any shorter."

Bergond was about to reply, when suddenly he stood up straight, shielding his blue eyes with his hand. "By the Valar!" he cried. "Look! There's someone out there!" he continued, gesturing to the wastelands that stretched away southward.

"That's your eyes playing tricks on you, lad," replied Huor. "_No one's_ out there, not in that accursed land."

"We're supposed to be keeping watch on it, aren't we?" asked Bergond. "So there must be something to watch for, or there wouldn't be much point. And I saw a white flash, what looked like a horse bearing a rider, as sure as I'm standing here." He pointed, and cried, "Look, there it is again!" Other shouts and cries began to echo from battlements higher up the tower; clearly, Bergond's eyes had not deceived him.

"Why, I see him now!" said Huor, his jaw dropping with astonishment. He then turned swiftly from the battlements, picket up a battered bugle that lay on a bench, and sounded the alarm. Within moments, his cry was echoed by other bugles and drums, from the Western as well as the Eastern tower, as scores of archers rushed to their posts, and stared in wonder at the figure advancing toward them in plain view. In a thousand years, this figure was the first to emerge from the wastes of Mordor that had ever been seen by a garrison of Carach Angren, and fear and wonder vied for mastery of their hearts.

After perhaps a score of minutes, the entire garrison could see him clearly now; an old man, with a black beard, garbed in robes that perhaps had once been brilliant white, though now they were now the colour of cream as through many years of use. He was mounted on a white steed, which had once been proud, but had clearly seen better days – it was gaunt, and its ribs showed through its flanks. The man bore a black staff, and a meager saddlebag, though no weapons or other gear could be seen.

"Halt!" cried Huor, as the Man approached within arrowshot of the Eastern tower and its door – he had presumably chosen to approach one of the towers, as the gate that stood amid the wall connecting them, which led from the frontiers of Mordor into the lands beyond, was sealed-shut and unmanned. He halted his weary steed, and gazed up at the battlements as he pulled what appeared to be a tattered scroll parchment from his travel-stained robes.

"Who are you? Account for yourself!" shouted Huor and Bergond, and their cry was soon echoed by others from the garrison.

"I am Curunir the White!" cried the Man, in a voice that was astonishingly deep and loud. "I bear a letter of marque from your King Ciryandil. Let me pass into your tower, and take food and shelter there for the night."

"King Ciryandil lies dead these past fifteen years!" cried Bergond, and other guards echoed his cry.

"That is grievous news," replied the Man, and all at once the garrison felt weighed down by his sorrow. They withdrew from the battlements, and stared down at him somberly.

"Yes, that is grievous news," continued the man. "Though it is twenty years since last I set foot in Gondor, and much has no doubt transpired there that was beyond my ken during my time in the wilderness. No matter; King Ciryandil's letter of marque, unless it has been revoked by his successor, remains valid."

"Stay there, sir," replied an officer who had joined Bergond and Huor on the battlements. "We'll send a squad out to investigate your letter at once. If it is signed and sealed by the old King, I'll deem it valid, and give you entry here as you wish."

"That is most kind of you," replied Curunir, and the guards of the garrison felt their hearts warm as they contemplated the benevolence they were showing to this harmless old Man.

"Poor old blighter," said Bergond, shaking his head. "He must be half-starved after crossing the wastelands."

"Aye," offered Huor, "Mordor seems an odd place for a lord to go holidaymaking."

* * *

Fed, bathed, and refreshed, his robes washed and clean anew, Curunir found himself in the cramped study of Baldor, the Warden of Carach Angren, sitting opposite his wooden desk. 

"I'm amazed you could survive in Mordor even for a month, my lord, let alone twenty years," said Baldor, shaking his graying beard in amazement. "We can see across the vale of Udun and into the plain of Gorgoroth for miles from atop these towers, and there's nothing for a man to live on in those lands; not a stream or a well to drink from, and no so much as a rat to eat. There's nothing there but ash and dust and bare dry rock."

"That is so," replied Curunir, nursing a silver goblet of mulled wine. "But not all of Mordor is a wasteland. Away south, by the Sea of Nurnen, there are streams that bear water fit to drink, and in their valleys grow grasses and bushes that shelter rabbits, pheasants and other small game. I dwelt in one of those valleys, in a stone hut of my own devising, and my diet was adequate if spare. Indeed, the soil in that region would be very fertile, and bring forth bountiful crops, if it were irrigated with water from the streams. I came across the remains of ancient ditches and settlements, and it seems that land was once used by the Dark Lord to grow the food that kept his armies on the march."

"Say you so," frowned Baldor, narrowing his hazel eyes. "Well, no matter how fertile it might be you'll not find any man of Gondor who would dwell in that land, which lay for so long under the Dark Lord's shadow,."

"No doubt," offered Curunir with a wry smile. "The brave soldiers of Gondor will not even patrol on horseback within the bounds of Mordor, so I suppose it is not surprising that mere civilians fear to settle there."

Baldor felt his back stiffen at this seeming gibe, though his sense of propriety stayed him from offering a riposte. Instead, shifting the ground of his questioning, he asked "I suppose it might be above my station to ask what you were doing in Mordor for so many years, my lord?"

"No doubt it is," replied Curunir, to Baldor's displeasure. "But I was seeking to learn what I could of the Dark Lord and his lands," continued the Wizard, "for reasons that were well known to your late King Ciryandil. And indeed I learned many curious and valuable things, though I shall not reveal them to any other than Ciryandil's heir. Suffice to say I am satisfied that the Black Land does not pose a threat to Gondor for the present, though that is no excuse for being lax in your vigilance. And speaking of Ciryandil, I understand from conversing with your soldiers that he was slain fifteen years ago outside the walls of Umbar?"

"That is so," replied Baldor sadly, his ill-humour at this haughty lord subsiding into grief as he dwelt on the recent events in the South. "The Haradrim roused themselves from their long slumber," he continued, "banded together in a great confederacy of many tribes, and made war against the city. They attacked from the desert at night, evading our scouts, and were aided by many of the treacherous Umbar-folk, who seemed to have forewarning of their assault, and who murdered the garrison by the South gate in order to allow the Haradrim within the city walls. They butchered all our poor lads who did not manage to find safety in the Citadel, and they lorded it over the city for a time, feasting and reveling, and making many boasts and idle threats against our boys who held the Citadel against them."

He slammed his fist on the table. "Gondor's vengeance was swift. Ciryandil dispatched many ships bearing many legions to Umbar; and though he was a scholar by inclination, he came at the forefront of his armies, armed and armoured on his snow-white steed, an image of the splendour of the Kings of old. I was a regular major in the Army then, and participated in the action myself. Our lads besieged the city for weeks, and at length, combining our efforts with those of our men who still held the Citadel within, we broke through the city walls, slaughtered or drove off the Haradrim within the city, and put paid to the Umbarian traitors who fought against us. But alas, even as our victory was almost complete, a stray arrow of the Haradrim caught our King in the gorge, which it seems was a weak point in his armour; he fell to the ground stone-dead, or so they say. At least he died a hero's death, and not suffer much."

Baldor then sighed again. "His son, King Ciryaher, who was with his father when he fell, has redoubled our vigilance in the South, but he is beset by many troubles. For though we have reinforced the walls of Umbar, and maintain our hold on it by the strength of our navy, which ferries supplies and men to there from Pelargir, the lands outside the city walls are still under the sway of the Haradrim. The road that leads from the Crossings of Harnen to Umbar has become well nigh impassible, for the Haradrim, mounted on horseback and firing their deadly arrows while in the saddle, infest all those lands now, so that it is not safe to send supply convoys to or receive goods from Umbar by road. Our trade with that city has suffered much. And through our soldiers can whip the Haradrim in a straight fight, as we did at Umbar itself, we are ill-suited for combating the hit-and-run mounted raids they make on us when we venture out into the desert. So the South is once again at war, and there is no sign of an easy or clear victory for either side."

"That is grievous news," frowned Curunir. "Anything that threatens the power of Gondor is a threat to all the Westlands. I learned much during my travels in Mordor, but it was at the price of being cut off from news of events in the outside world. I wish now I had spent less time there, for perhaps I could have helped Ciryandil to have won a decisive victory at Umbar; and yea, maybe he would not have fallen that day had I been there."

"Perhaps, my lord," replied Baldor doubtfully. "Though the past cannot be undone. And things are worse still than I have said, for even as Gondor is locked in war with the Haradrim in the South, our frontiers are harassed by the Rhunlings in the East."

"The East?" cried Curunir, setting his goblet down on the desk, and staring at Baldor with such intensity that the Warden began to find it unnerving. "Tell me more of this, Baldor! What news of the East?"

"There is less to tell than of the South," replied Baldor uncertainly. "No great battles, or deaths of Kings. But there have been many small skirmishes and raids, which have grown bolder over time. The Rhunlings were not so daring in the past as they are in recent years. And they have grown more deadly, too; for of old they fought only on foot, with crude weapons of stone or copper, but now 'tis said they fight from horse-drawn chariots, armed with weapons of steel! How they learned the arts of horse-taming and steel-making, in only a few swift years, I know not."

"Weapons of steel…" whispered Curunir, his dark eyes narrowing. "You are sure of this?"

"Indeed, lord, it cannot be doubted," replied Baldor. "I spoke not a fortnight ago to one of our captains from the Eastern marches, who had been sent back to Gondor on a litter on account of his grievous wounds. His shoulder had been cleaved nigh asunder by a curved steel blade of one of the Rhunlings, which cut right through his armour."

"Aye," Baldor whispered darkly, "my chief fear is that the Rhunlings will all unite together as have the Haradrim, and mayhap even form alliance with the Haradrim, and the Variags and other Southrons as they did in the Dark Years of old. Then Gondor will be hard put to the test on both fronts, East and South; and while we are the better men, we would be far outnumbered by the Easterlings and Southrons if they combined their strength against us."

"Who are the chiefs of these barbarians, the Haradrim and Rhunlings?" asked Curunir intently. "You say that the Haradrim have united in a confederacy, for instance. Who was the great chief who forged those feuding tribes into a single nation, bent on war

against the Sea Kings?"

"I know not, my lord," replied Baldor somberly. "The Haradrim captives, when interrogated, would only say _Inzullor. _A name in our own ancient tongue, oddly enough. Mayhap he is one of the Umbar-men, one whose forefathers were Black Numenoreans of old."

"Inzullor…" repeated Curunir. The White Wizard was silent for some minutes, deep in contemplation, before Baldor heard him whisper, "My friends, what have you done? Have you so swiftly met with ill fortune, or been driven astray from your purposes?"

"My lord?" asked Baldor, puzzled.

"Never mind," replied Curunir firmly. "I had planned to return to Gondor for a time, and then head northwards. Now my plans are changed. I require your assistance, Warden."

"You have it, my lord," replied Baldor, "at least whatever assistance you are entitled to by your letter of marque."

"Take possession of my steed," said Curunir, "for it is old, and after many years of toil it is not up to new challenges. In its place supply me with the best steed you have; not the finest in pedigree, but the one best equipped for enduring a long, hard journey over barren lands. And provide me also with fresh supplies, enough at least as the horse can carry as a burden in addition to my own weight."

"As you wish, my lord," nodded Baldor. "When do you require these things?"

"By dawn tomorrow," replied Curunir, rising from his chair. "I ride into the East at first light."

* * *

Spring had passed into summer, and many long miles lay behind him, before Curunir, mounted on a mighty dun-coloured stallion, found himself within the land of Dorwinion by the western shores of the Sea of Rhun. He had reached the end of the East Road, and had planned to take ship across the sea from the town of Nindemos, Hasufeld in the local vernacular, to hasten his journey to the distant land of the Rhunlings. But as he stood at the top of the hill that lay west of the town, and the bright blue waters of the Sea unfolded before his view, he felt his heart sink into his boots. 

What he had taken as smoke from the cooking fires of Nindemos had, it seemed, another source. For Hasufeld was no longer standing. In its place was strewn a pitiful mass of burned timber and wreckage, dead animals and dead men. Nindemos was ruined, and not a single one of its citizens or guards appeared to have survived the massacre.

For some hours, Curunir regarded the tragic spectacle in grim silence, deep in contemplation. Then, as the Sun was sinking into the West, he heard the footfalls of many horses on the road behind him. Wheeling round in alarm and edging his horse forward, preparing to defend himself if attacked, he breathed a sigh of relief as a battalion of cavalrymen bearing the banner of Gondor came into view over the rim of the westward hills. After some time, the Gondor-men drew nigh to Curunir, and blew their horns as they caught sight of him.

"You there, stay right where you are!" cried their officer, as Curunir rested his staff on his lap, and raised his hands in a gesture of supplication.

"Peace!" replied the Wizard. "I am on your side." He slowly withdrew his letter of marque from the fold of his robes, which he showed to the officer as the cavalrymen drew abreast of him, their long spears at the ready.

"I see that, my lord," replied the officer, handing the scroll back to Curunir after he had gazed at it. "I am Captain Hador. We received word from the locals that the accursed Rhunlings had launched a raid against the port of Nindemos, and we are on our way to investigate. If I may make so bold, what is your business in these parts?"

"I am Curunir the White, and was on my way to Nindemos, or Hasufeld as some call it, on my own affairs," replied the Wizard. "But I fear both of us have arrived too late. See for yourself." Taking his staff in his right hand again, and the reins of his steed in his left, he turned around and rode back to the crest of the hill, accompanied by the cavalrymen.

As they saw the remains of Nindemos, their faces turned pale. Some of the younger cavalrymen wept, thought most spoke words that were hard and grim.

"Indeed we have arrived too late," spat Hador, his grey eyes burning with wrath. "An entire garrison of our men slaughtered, and the simple folk of Dorwinion who dwelt there besides, yea, even the women and children it seems!"

Hador's face twisted with disgust. "This is the work of the maggots of Rhun, and a grave blow to the honour of Gondor. And verily, to our power in these parts; for why should the Dorwinion-men submit to the yoke of our King, if the King's soldiers cannot protect them from evil?"

"No doubt you arrived as soon as you could," replied Curunir soothingly, and the riders relaxed somewhat, though still their faces were marred by gloom. "But come, let us proceed yonder and investigate. I sense no life in those ruins, but we may learn more of this grim deed, and those responsible for it."

Hador nodded and, accompanied by the wizard, led his men downhill into the remains of Nindemos. Yet as they rode through the smoking ruin of the town, there was little more to learn. All about lay the burned bodies of the townspeople, alongside fallen soldiers of Gondor, though the curious bronze armour of some of the burned bodies suggested that those corpses belonged to Rhunlings. "These dogs care not even for their own," spat Hador.

Curunir nodded somberly as he dismounted, running his fingers over the chest-armour of a Rhunling, in order to determine the quality and methods of its workmanship. He muttered inaudibly, and then stood up, taking in for a moment the half-burned remains of a sign that bore a carved vine and grape-leaf. Turning to Hador and his men, who had also dismounted, Curunir said "It appears we have indeed arrived too late. Not a single man or woman, not even a beast still draws breath here. There are many hoofprints and wheel-ruts pressed into the earth, and so the Rhunlings must have made a mounted raid in force, perhaps even under cover of darkness to take the garrison by surprise. The garrison was inadequate, and swiftly succumbed, and the townspeople were hopelessly outmatched, though no doubt they made what efforts they could to defend themselves bravely. You can see the burned ribs of a few ships jutting from the waters of yon harbour; it seems that even the boats were burned, and as like as not no one managed to escape by sea."

"Aye, a grim day indeed," replied Hador, shaking his head. "If only we had a larger garrison here…but our armies in this land have been reduced to a skeleton force, so that the King can fight his war against the Harad-men away south in Umbar. No doubt the troubles of a few border villages in Dorwinion count for little in the councils of state held within the marble halls of Osgiliath. But I fear that Gondor will soon lose its hold on this land, unless we receive reinforcements and soon."

"The Dorwinion-men will surely be arming themselves even now," replied Curunir. "I noted on my ride eastward that their farmsteads have high walls, and seem to have been built with a mind to defence; though an isolated farmstead could no better endure a raid by a large party of Rhunlings than did this town. But the Dorwinion-men will have to defend themselves, if Gondor cannot come to their aid."

"Aye, and that is my fear, in truth," said Hador. "Either the Dorwinion-men will perish at the hands of the accursed Rhunlings, or they will survive on their own efforts, and no longer see the need to submit to Gondor's yoke. Either way, Gondor's empire in the East will soon be lost, unless some miracle can turn the tide."

Curunir raised a black eyebrow, but maintained a diplomatic silence; he saw no great harm in the Dorwinion-men living under their own rulers, as long as they remained friends of the Gondor-men, and helped them to stem the tide from the East.

"What now, captain?" said the White Wizard, changing the subject to matters closer at hand. "What are your next steps?"

"Our duty is clear," replied Hador. "First, we must gather all the bodies of our fellow Gondorian soldiers that we can find, and bury them together under a grave-mound, offering them the proper funerary ceremonies as best as we are able. When that is done, we shall then gather together the bodies of the Dorwinion-men, and burn what is left of them in a great pyre, for it is the custom of that people that upon death their bodies should be burnt to ashes. The Rhunlings," continued Hador, spitting on the ground, "well, we shall leave what is left of them to be picked clean by the crows and wild dogs. They deserve no better." He gave orders to his men accordingly, and as they set to their work, he turned back to Curunir.

"And what of you, my lord?" he asked. "Whatever business you had in this town, you have surely journeyed hither in vain."

"That remains to be seen," replied Curunir grimly, as he re-mounted his horse and took its reins in his hand. "It is clear the tracks of the Rhunling raiders lead away southward, and presumably they will follow the shore of the Sea, south and east, until they reach their own homelands. In their path I shall journey also; for mark my words, Man of Gondor, there will be a reckoning for the Rhunlings' evil deeds here!"

"You mean to pursue them yourself, my lord?" asked Hador incredulously, beginning to wonder if this mysterious stranger was touched in the head. "You will surely meet your doom if you seek to bring justice upon the Rhunlings single-handed. I would dispatch my cavalry unit to help you, but my standing orders are to return to our headquarters in the mountains away west of here when we encounter proof of a Rhunling raid, so that General Orleg, Gondor's commander-in-the-field for Dorwinion, can decide upon the best course of action. At the least, my lord, you should follow us. I'm sure the General would not be averse to your joining any punitive expedition we chose to make against the Rhunlings."

"I have not the time to wait for your General, good Hador," replied Curunir, wheeling about and spurring his steed to action. "And I assure you, I require not the help of any Man!" With that, he was off, and soon disappeared from sight as the Sun sank lower into the West and the shadows of evening lengthened.

"Well, that's the last we'll see of him," muttered Hador to himself. "But as my grandmother used to say, no good can come from standing between a madman and his fancies."

* * *

Curunir pursued the Rhunlings for a day, and another, and again another, for his mortal steed could not close the distance with the raiders, who had more than a day's head start in their favour. The weeks passed, and as summer reached its balmy heights he followed the grassy shores of the Inland Sea, south and then east, at length passing far beyond the eastern shores as he rode into the unknown vastness of Rhun. He followed the trail to an empty stretch of marshes, and then knew his chase had been futile; there the trail was lost entirely. 

Yet he did not abandon his higher purpose; to find Pallando, and learn what the Blue Wizard knew of events in Rhun, and indeed what role he had played in setting them in motion, as he surely must have done. Curunir wondered why Pallando, who had been instructed to bring the light to the Easterlings, had instead brought them the knowledge to forge weapons of war, without inculcating in them the wisdom they would need to use those weapons in the cause of justice.

But his questions remained unanswered. In this vast land, flat and featureless, an endless succession of grassy plains and barren marshes and sparse copses of Birch and Poplar, there were no roads, and no people that Curunir could find, and no way at all of learning the Blue Wizard's whereabouts. Sometimes, Curunir would see a cooking fire on the horizon, and he would signal his approach to them; yet by the time he had reached it, the Rhunlings would long since have departed. They lived off the land, pursuing their quarry from one place to another, and dwelling but a little stretch of time in any place. Now that they had tamed horses it was fruitless to try and catch up with them.

Summer passed into autumn, and autumn passed into winter, and still Curunir could find no trace of his quarry. He wandered for leagues uncounted, living off the land as did the Rhunlings, and when the snows of winter arrived he built a simple cabin for himself amid a wood of Birch trees; but even his cooking-fires did not attract any notice, or at any rate they did not draw the Rhunlings to him as he had hoped.

As the snows melted, the flowers sprang forth, and the grasses and copses turned a brilliant green amid the brief spring that graced the land before it was browned by the harsh summer Sun, Curunir resumed his wandering. Yet his search, which consumed all his thoughts, proved no more fruitful than before, and as the seasons turned and the snows arrived again at length, he came back to his winter camp, with its spare cabin and its glade of Birch trees that ever sighed under the caresses of the East wind.

Full twelve years passed in this manner, and Curunir and his steed grew ever-more lean and careworn, while his robes grew so dusty they were now more beige than cream. "My cloak shall soon be as brown as that of Aiwendil the Bird-tamer," he said to himself, and laughed outloud at the thought, though his laughter was soon lost amid the grasslands that sprawled beneath the deep blue vault of the Eastern sky. He was aware of the irony, for had he mastered Aiwendil's gift of communicating with beasts, a talent Curunir had once deemed petty and beneath his notice, he could have set many wild birds to scour the land for him, and bring him news of Pallando. He resolved to learn more of that art, should he ever return to the West of Middle Earth, rather than forever wander the empty lands of the East as it now seemed was his fate.

One evening in early spring, when the pale wildflowers had again short forth from the newly-thawed ground, and the buds on the Birch trees had begun to open into slender leaves of brilliant green, Curunir found himself striding along the well-worn path from his cabin to a little stream that served as his source of water. He was also on the lookout for kindling wood, since the fire on his hearth had gone out that afternoon. The stars had begun to glimmer in the darkening sky, and Curunir briefly glanced at his steed, which had been grazing happily on a patch of wildflowers that grew in the clearing about the cabin. The beast had suddenly raised its head, and now stood at attention, its nose twitching, its ears alert.

"What is it?" whispered Curunir softly, placing his leathern water flask on the ground and following the beast's line of sight into the Birch forest. "Have we company at last, in this lonely place?" The horse whinnied softly, stamping its foot, and turned and stared at Curunir with a gleam in its eye that struck him as astonishingly intelligent and full of joy.

Then suddenly he heard it – the singing of soft voices, hardly distinguishable from the sighing of the wind amid the trees, and the faint notes of a harp or lute, which seemed to blend with the tinkling waters of the nearby stream, and the twittering of the woodland birds as they settled down for their nightly rest. At once he felt his own spirits rise, and understood his steed's mood; for these signs could mean nothing less than the presence of Elves, in this very wood!

"Avari," he whispered, his dark eyes now staring intently into the copse of Birch tress, in the direction from which the faint singing and music could be heard. The absence of any company had long since led him to speak to his horse as if it were a Man, though he was aware of the eccentricity of this habit.

"The Unwilling, the Wild Wood Elves of the East," he continued. "Ages ago they forswore the journey of their kindred into the West, and they vowed to dwell in this Middle Earth until the End of Time, even should their bodies fade under the mortal Sun, leaving them as forest spirits of twilight and starlight. In Laurelindorean and the Greenwood, they have been tamed by great lords of the High Elven and Grey Elven kindreds. But here in the East, the Avari are truly wild; they have no kings and no cities, and wander from place to place, from one wood to another, as their fancy strikes them. So it is written in the scrolls of lore."

Curunir paused for a moment. "They may be dangerous. In this rude land, they would have good reason to fear and shun all strangers, and to great them with a hail of arrows rather than kindly words. But I must risk it." He pursed his lips, and then whistled; a long, clear note, strangely melodious, that carried deep into the wood, echoing amid the rustling trees.

His horse stared at him curiously, pawing the ground. "Now it's done," Curunir admitted. "I've revealed myself to them as plain as day. They may flee, but I trust their curiosity will overcome their fear, and then I shall be able to exchange words with them."

The singing and music had stopped, and all Curunir could hear was the sighing of the wind amid the trees, the rustling of the newly-opened leaves, and the bubbling of the stream. But a hush had fallen on the birds and beasts of the forest, and his senses told him that the Elves were drawing close to him now, determined to discover the nature of this intruder in their sylvan realm. Cautiously, he retraced his steps to the cabin, and took hold of the staff that he had left leaning by the open door – it would not hurt to have both the symbol of his authority, and the instrument of his power in hand when the Elves laid eyes on him. He returned to the clearing and waited, while his steed began once again to whinny and paw the ground, a trace of unease in its manner now.

"They are very close," whispered Curunir, using now the Sindarin tongue of the Grey Elves who lived far to the west. Then a brown-feathered arrow struck the ground at his feet, and he jerked his head upward. They had journeyed to him through the treetops!

"Close enough to put the next arrow through your heart, if you so much as twitch an eyebrow!" cried a voice from high up the nearest Birch tree. The words were in an archaic dialect, distantly akin to Sindarin, which Curunir could interpret with some effort. "Remain still!" said the voice, which was soft and yet cool. "Neither move nor make a sound, till we have taken a better look at you."

Curunir remained silent, frowning slightly while his horse sank to the ground, strangely passive, as if the Elves had placed an enchantment on it. Then, at length, the voice from the trees laughed softly.

"So, I see," it said. "You are in form like a Man of the West, or akin to them. Seldom have we seen your sort in these lands. But you have within you a spirit and a power that are surely beyond the measure of mortal Men, and I have not met your kind before. Stand still! I shall come forth and meet you, but do not attempt any trickery! The arrows of my kindred are still trained on you from the treetops."

Curunir saw a shadow drop from the trees into the clearing, and then all at once the Elf stood before him; tall and pale, with the fair features and pointed ears of all the Elven-kind, his long tawny hair and sparkling green eyes matching the dark green tunic and beige leather breeches and boots that formed his simple garb. A quiver of brown-feathered arrows was slung over his back, and a bow of smooth, dark-stained wood was held in his right hand.

"I am Tuilen," said the Elf. "I am the eldest of my kindred, and speak for us when the need arises, though it seldom does. What is your name, and what is it you seek in these lands? For plainly you do not belong here, and yet some desire has brought you hither."

"I am Curunir the White," replied the wizard, now standing proudly over the Elf. "I am a Man in body, and yet more than a Man as you have guessed. More than that I shall not say, beyond that my purposes concern the welfare of the World, and the destiny of this Middle Earth. I do not trespass here out of any purpose that would harm your people, fair Tuilen; I seek merely news of my cousin, who has dwelt in these lands for some time."

"Your cousin dwells here also?" asked Tuilen, his eyebrows raised. "That is the strangest tale I have heard in many a long year. What desire has brought _him _to this land, then, if cousin he be in truth?"

"Well, his is my kinsman of a sort," demurred Curunir. "His business is his own. But mayhap you have heard of him? He is somewhat alike in form to myself, but his eyes are blue, and a blue sphere is affixed atop his crystal staff, and blue are his robe and his hat."

Instantly, Curunir found the sharp tip of one of Tuilen's flint-headed arrows pointed at his throat, the shaft fitted to the bowstring, which the Elf now held extended with three slender fingers. His green eyes were cold and unfriendly. Curunir could hear the bowstrings of the other Elves in their treetops, straining with tautness as the Elves aimed at his heart.

"You are here to serve the self-styled Blue Lord of the East?" asked Tuilen coolly. "Yes or no? Answer falsely, or poorly, and you die."

But Curunir had overcome his initial shock, and now made the slightest motion of his staff, while his face assumed a benevolent mien. "My dear Tuilen," he said, in a voice suddenly deep and mellow, "by what cause have I offended you? I mean you not any harm, nor am I here to help those who would do you ill."

Tuilen stared uncertainly at the Wizard for a moment, and then slowly lowered his bow and arrow, nodding. He whispered briefly at the trees, and the other Elves likewise relaxed their bows. "Aye," he said at length, "my reaction was hasty. But we must be cautious when we deal with strangers in this land."

"But of course," smiled Curunir benignly. Then he assumed a more serious air. "Now come, noble Tuilen. Tell me more of this Blue Lord, as you called him. Has he been molesting your kindred or your lands?"

"He is the source of many woes," replied Tuilen bitterly. "Over three decades ago he appeared. One of my brothers spotted him from afar, accompanied by a host of the savage Men of these lands; and that was a strange thing indeed, that they should admit a Westron to their camps as a guest, rather than slay him out of hand as is their custom. News of this soon spread amongst my kindred, for though there are few of us, we have many ways of sending word to each other swiftly and silently, and many of the birds and beasts are our friends. But the admission of this Man to their camps was only the beginning of the strange events of these recent years."

Tuilen then explained to Curunir how, apparently under the tutelage of this blue-robed stranger, the Easterings swiftly learned how to tame horses, and how they had begun to trade with Dwarf and Orc-mines in the mountains that lay to the north and east of their lands, exchanging hides and cured meats for ingots of copper, tin, iron and other riches of the earth.

"My kindred use only flint for our arrowheads and spearpoints, as we ever have," continued Tuilen. "That is our way. It was also the way of the wild Men hereabouts, ever since their ancestors journeyed into these lands from the Far East in ages past. Seldom have we had dealings with the Dwarves, and never with the Orcs, but we know both of them can melt certain rocks and forge them into weapons of metal. Under this Blue Lord's direction, the Men of these lands have built their own forges and smithies, and these ring out night and day with the sounds of weaponmaking. Many forests near to their smithies have but cut down to fuel the fires, and that is the cause of our enmity towards the Blue Lord; for the forest is our home, and we will not tolerate threats to it. If all the scattered woods of this land were cut down my people would either have to flee in exile, or else perish for want of food and shelter."

He sighed, and then continued. "Moreover, the Men of this land, who were once scattered clans, are forming into a great army. Their womenfolk, elders and younglings live still in shifting camps on the plains, but vast numbers of their men of fighting age now live in settled camps by the Blue Lord's forges. They send out riders in great vessels of metal drawn by horses into the West; sometimes they do not return, but more often they do, laden it seems with booty from the Westrons. The Blue Lord could send many more Men west in force, should he wish it."

"That is an evil tale," replied Curunir, frowning darkly now. "But where are these forges and smithies? A dozen years have I crossed the trackless wastes of this land, and I have seen no sign of them."

"They are in the foothills of the Red Mountains," replied Tuilen. "Leagues upon leagues to the east of this wood. I am not surprised you have not encountered them, for these lands are so vast that a man could scour them for a hundred years before happening upon the Blue Lord's encampment by chance. But I can tell you how to proceed there directly, if you wish."

"I would be most grateful indeed," smiled Curunir. "It is plain that the one you refer to as the Blue Lord has strayed far from the purposes for which he was sent hither. I mean to set him back on the right path, and in so doing to end the threat that he poses to the ways of your people."

"For that, you would have our own gratitude, Curunir the White," bowed Tuilen. "Listen then; from this spot, ride due east, towards the rising Sun, until at length you come to a vast, dry riverbed. It is deep, and broad, and full of many hillocks of sand and gravel; you cannot miss it. Turn and follow its path, north and east, and after some weeks, or perhaps months, you will arrive at the roots of the Red Mountains. The Blue Lord's camp and his forges sit at the head of the river-valley, between the flanks of two hills. They draw water from the springs that still sit at the source of the riverbed, though most of those springs dried up in ages past, reducing the once mighty river that flowed through those parts to the barren land, stripped of its trees, through which you will ride. If you set off on the morrow, you could reach the camps before the end of summer."

"So be it," replied Curunir. Then he smiled again, his voice now soft and low. "But please, good Tuilen, might I not now entertain you for the evening, simple though my accommodations are? It is long since I have had any company, I and would offer you such hospitality as I can."

"I must decline," smiled Tuilen briefly, blinking as if a spell had been lifted from his eyes. "My kindred have our tasks, as you have yours, and we cannot tarry here. The wood awaits us, and we must sing under the stars throughout the evening if the flowers are to fully blossom, and the trees to ripen forth with leaves. Thus is the land reknewed. Fare you well!" And with that, he turned and dashed into the wood, while a soft rustling in the treetops signaled the departure of his kindred.

Curunir sighed, and then turned once again to his steed, which now lay asleep on a bed of flowers that seemed to smell more sweetly than they had but a few hours before. "Sleep indeed, my friend" he whispered. "Tomorrow you will have a hard ride ahead of you."

* * *

Spring passed into summer, and Curunir had ridden over countless leagues of country that grew more treeless and barren has he drew farther east, following the course of the dry riverbed that Tuilen had mentioned. At length the craggy ramparts of the Red Mountains began to loom up on the eastern horizon. Then, Curunir saw many smokes rising forth from a narrow valley at the root of the mountains, and knew that at last his long journey was nearly complete. 

"Indeed you have been busy, Pallando," whispered Curunir under his breath. "I trust you will not be unduly surprised when I inspect your labours and find them wanting." He spurred his horse from the crest of the valley down its shallow slopes, meaning to follow it straight into the Blue Wizard's encampment. But as he descended into the valley floor, which was littered with many broken boulders and rocks of dusky red stone, his horse began to neigh and paw the ground uneasily, looking this way and that.

"Yes, I sense it too," he whispered, lifting his staff from his lap and holding it in his right hand, ready for use. "There are unseen sentinels here…"

Without warning, a black-feathered arrow shot from behind one of the rocks, grazing Curunir's steed on the flank. Screaming with panic and pain, the beast bolted, throwing the White Wizard to the ground. Curunir jumped to his feet, staff at the ready, only to see from the corner of his eye that his steed was galloping madly up the valley slope and into the West, carrying his saddle, canteen, and all other possessions. Only his staff remained in his own hands. But he could not call to the beast to return, for his attention was distracted by several more black-feathered arrows, aimed straight at his breast!

Frowning with concentration, Curunir spun his staff faster than the eye could see, knocking the deadly arrows off their path. Then, speaking a Word of Command, he pointed his staff at the boulders before him. A flaming orb shot forth from the staff, exploding amid the boulders with a deafening roar!

As the blast echoed up and down the valley, Curunir strode cautiously toward the boulders, staff at the ready. Amid the stench of burning flesh, he could hear pawing and scraping on the gravel of the valley floor, and the odd curse muttered in an uncouth tongue. His nostrils wrinkling with disgust, he stood still, and pointed his staff towards the boulder.

"_Snaga_!" he cried, uttering the Black Speech of Mordor – he had found a Key to it during his travels in that land. "Come forth! Your comrades lie dead, and so shall you, if you do not obey my commands!"

Growling now, the creature crawled forth from behind the boulder, and wallowed in the dust, its sickly gray flesh and ebon-scaled armour singed and burning, its scarlet tongue lolling out from its grotesque visage, its yellow eyes glaring with hatred at its foe.

"You know the Dark Lord's speech?" spat the Orc; for such it was. "How can this be?"

"I know many things," replied Curunir guardedly. "Now, speak! Whom do you serve, and why did you and your dead fellows attack me just now? Are you bandits, or guards?"

The Goblin screwed up its face with rage, and spat a string of foul curses. But then, compelled by a will greater than its own, it answered the White Wizard's queries.

"I serve…the Blue Lord, now," it spat. "Black has become blue, and blue has become black," it wheezed, gurgling in its throat with what Curunir imagined might have been its idea of laughter.

"And the Blue Lord commanded you to guard this valley?" asked Curunir, not interested in exchanging riddles with this foul beast.

"We guard. We serve. We send iron ingots to Men," gasped the Orc.

"And for what price?" asked Curunir.

"Flesh is sweet," gurgled the Orc. "And none sweeter than…" It convulsed with a harsh, racking cough.

"Sweeter than what? What say you?" asked Curunir, curling his lip. But the Orc gave a last gurgling cry, twitched and then lay still. Curunir stepped cautiously toward it and prodded it with his staff, but it was clearly quite dead.

"Disgusting creatures," muttered Curunir. "Why should Pallando have any dealings with them, trading the flesh of who knows what beasts for their ores and their blades? My displeasure with him grows by the moment." He turned his gaze to the West, but his steed had long since passed over the edge of the valley in its frantic escape, and now it was beyond sight or earshot.

"Well, my little fireworks display certainly will not have gone unnoticed," sighed Curunir, speaking to himself. "There's nothing for it but to walk towards the camp and await my welcome, such as it may be. It had better surpass that offered by these Orcs, or my reckoning with the so-called Blue Lord shall be swift indeed."

Turning back toward the East, Curunir strode purposively amongst the rocks and boulders, following a winding course that led inexorably towards the wisps of smoke emanating from the feet of the ruddy mountains, which drew closer with each passing minute. Perhaps an hour or so had elapsed, when he heard the footfalls of horses echoing down the valley in front of him, and what sounded like the rumbling wooden wheels of a crude chariot.

"At last, the welcome party," laughed Curunir grimly. He strode toward a clearing amid the boulders, and then stood, tall and proud, his staff planted firmly into the dust. Only a few more minutes passed before a score of riders appeared amid the boulders opposite the clearing, wearing crudely-wrought armour and spiraled helmets of flashing bronze and tunics of crimson cloth, their standard-bearer holding a banner of pure azure. Behind them rumbled a heavy chariot, drawn by half-a-dozen brown horses, and driven by a single man garbed and armoured like his fellows. The standard-bearer cried out in a harsh tongue, and amid a cloud of dust the party came at once to a halt.

As the dust settled, the standard-bearer rode forth, stopping several paces short of Curunir. The White Wizard carefully scrutinized the young Man, noting that his olive skin was clean-shaven but for a long, thin moustache of oily black hair, and that his brown eyes were both shrewd and fierce. He bore a curved sword in a leathern scabbard, the hilt and pommel of which gleamed of steel.

"Welcome, o Curunir the White," said the standard-bearer at length, speaking the Common Tongue of Gondor with an outlandish accent.

"You know both my name, and the Common Speech?" asked Curunir, his dark eyebrows flashing in surprise.

"Indeed," replied the Man. "I am Jagati, lieutenant of the Aral-Rakanand eldest son and heir of Targul-Rakan, the Grand Chief of our nation. Our master Aral-Rakanhas been expecting you would visit him in time. Your chariot awaits, my lord. It shall bear you to our master's camp."

"Your master did not set out such a warm welcome farther down yon valley," scowled Curunir, jerking his head toward the barren vale behind him. "I was waylaid by a party of Orcish guards, and lost both my steed and my possessions."

"Yet I deem the Orcs had the worst of the encounter, my lord," replied Jagati with a sly grin. "Else you should lie dead. Nay, do not take offense, my lord," said the man, raising his left hand in supplication as Curunir's scowl deepened. "Merely a jest on the part of my humble self. Please, climb aboard your chariot, and we shall bear you to the feasting hall."

Nodding silently, Curunir strode towards the transport, ignoring the intense stares of these strange and savage men, and alighted in the chariot, gripping the bronze rim with his left hand while keeping a steady grip on his staff in his right. The charioteer raised the reins, and with a harsh cry he wheeled the cart around, rumbling back towards the East as the party of horsemen formed an escort.

Another hour passed, the barren foothills of the Red Mountains looming high overhead, until at last the Rhunlings turned a corner in the dry valley and came upon a steep gorge, within which lay the Blue Wizard's camp. It was a vast series of crude huts of hide and bone or wood, from which issued the fumes of countless dung-fires, and which sprawled around several low, solid buildings of carved sandstone, clearly quarried from the nearby mountains. On the far side of the stone buildings were many smaller stone huts, from which dark plumes of smoke issued forth. The walls of the gorge echoed faintly with the ringing of many hammers on anvils, just as Tuilen had said.

"This is the _Aral-Kurulen,_" grunted Jagati, who now rode alongside the chariot. "The camp of the Blue Lord, our master."

"Even the King of Gondor would be impressed, I'm sure," replied Curunir with a wry smile, as he took in both the size and the squalor of the vast encampment.

"The King of Gondor. Bah!" spat Jagati. "We have heard tales of his stone houses. They are nothing beside those we have built, and less beside those we shall build in times to come! This city shall be the heart of a great empire, Lord Curunir! But you shall learn this soon enough. Our master will say more."

"Of that I have no doubt," replied Curunir, ignoring the Rhunling's absurd boasts.

The party passed through the warren of huts, as many young warriors, some armoured, come clothed only in loose-fitting pantaloons, came forth from their dwellings to stare at their mysterious guest. Curunir noted that there were no women or children amongst them. _A camp of war, just as Tuilen said, _he thought to himself.

At last, the chariot drove past the last of the huts, and through a heavily-guarded gate in an enclosing wall to the compound of ruddy-hewed stone buildings. The chariot came to a halt at the foot of a flight of stairs that descended from the largest structure, a broad, squat, heavy edifice that had only one doorway at the top of the stairs, and a few narrow windows that could double as arrow-holes if required. An azure pennant mounted on a pole on the roof above the doorway flapped in the East wind.

The horsemen dismounted from their steeds, swiftly forming an honour guard for Curunir as he alighted from his chariot on the crimson sands. As he stared up towards the doorway, a score of spear-bearing guards issued forth, their bronze helms decorated by long azure feathers of some unknown bird. One of them held up to his lips a small brass horn, which issued forth a brazen peal that echoed across the ruddy-walled valley. Then, as Curunir sighed impatiently at this display of pomp, a familiar figure came forth from the doorway, and stood at the top of the stairs, leaning on his crystal staff, his flowing blue robes and cloak standing in sharp contrast to the ruddy tones of the encampment.

"Curunir the White!" cried the figure in a high, reedy voice. "At long last! I am glad to see you survived you perilous journey into the Black Land. Now, we are together again! We have much to discuss, you and I."

"Aral-Rakan," replied Curunir. "Or such is your name in these parts, if I have been informed correctly. There is indeed much to discuss, though with your pardon I shall wait until after my evening repast to do so.

"But of course," replied the Blue Wizard, smiling broadly as he gestured toward the doorway with his crystal staff. "Please, come inside! A feast has been prepared for you. There shall be plenty of time for talk once the Sun sinks into the West, and the Moon lies overhead. Come!"

Wordlessly, Curunir strode up the stairs, his staff clacking loudly with each step, until he passed into the doorway, followed by the Blue Wizard.

* * *

The so-called feast was one of the worst meals that Curunir had endured in his long exile in the East. He did not enquire too closely but he suspected the main course, served in bronze platters and bowls set on the floor, was nothing less than boiled horse flesh, and the beverage appeared to be fermented mare's milk. Pallando – Curunir refused to think of him by the barbarous name of Aral-Rakan, despite his public appellation - ate almost as sparingly as he did. However, the Rhunlings present, from their grizzled Great Chief Targul-Rakan, resplendent in his armour of polished bronze, to the blue-robed, shaven-headed acolytes who served as Pallando's aides, tucked into the meal with relish. 

The close, smoky atmosphere of the room, lighted by a large brazier of brass around which were arranged the padded leathern cushions of the guests, completed the general atmosphere of barbarism and squalor. Yet it was apparent that the Rhunlings were very proud of their feasting hall, and perhaps not without reason; after all, a generation before, they had lived only in huts of bone and leather, and luxuries such as bronze serving dishes and cushions had been utterly unknown to them.

After the meal the Rhunlings, who had made a show of bowing repeatedly before both Curunir and Pallando, departed for their own tents, leaving the two Wizards to themselves. As he reclined on his cushions, picking a bit of gristle from between his sharp white teeth, Pallando turned to Curunir with a curious gleam in his bluish-grey eyes.

"Well, my friend," said the Blue Wizard, "what do you think? I don't mean the meal," he added quickly, noting that the White Wizard's face was tinged with a distinctly greenish hue. "I haven't had the time to instruct these folk in the culinary arts, regrettably. But what do you think of what I've accomplished amongst these Men, in such a short space of time?"

Curunir stared at the flames of the brazier, choosing his words carefully. "There is no doubt that these Men have come a long way…" he began.

"Indeed they have!" beamed Pallando. "They have proven apt pupils. The Gondor and Dorwinion-men have long slandered these folk as hardly above the level of beasts. Yet they are as quick to learn, and to improve themselves as any other Men, once the opportunity presents itself. Indeed," he sighed, "the Gondor-men's arrogance never ceases to amaze me. After all it was not so long ago, as you and I measure things, that even the Edainic ancestors of the Gondorians lived little better than these folk."

"As I said, these Easterlings have come a long way," said Curunir. "But," he continued, raising a sable eyebrow in admonition, "you surely realize they still have far to go."

"Well, of course!" replied Pallando with a frown. "I cannot bring them the Sun and the Moon all at once. But you should have seen what these folk were like when I first arrived in this land, Curunir. They had nothing – literally nothing at all. All that you see here, from this building, to their armour and weapons, to their forges and smithies, to their taming of horses, and use of chariots; all these things I have brought to them. In one generation I have raised them from crude savagery to organized barbarism; in the next I shall begin to raise them from barbarism to civilization. They will be taught the arts of writing, once I have finished devising an alphabet for their speech, and I shall replace their cluster of tents with a city of proper houses of stone, and invite their wives and children who are scattered across this land to live here with them."

"A curious choice of words," replied Curunir. "Raised them to barbarism, you say? I have seen the handiwork of these folk by the shores of Dorwinion, and barbarian strikes me as to too fine a name for them. Butchers would be a more appropriate appelation."

"You mean their penchant for raiding?" asked Pallando, waving a pale hand dismissively. "Please, Curunir. Surely, _you _of all people can see things in their proper perspective. These folk have long suffered the depredations of the Doriwinon-men and their allies in Gondor. The Westrons have stolen their fish, and the horses and kine of this land, offering nothing in return but cold steel when the Rhunlings resist. Why should the Rhunlings not seek to exact a thorough revenge, now they have the means to do so? It is only natural."

"Natural?" cried Curunir, his deep voice echoing across the dusky hall. "What I saw at the town of Nindemos was not not natural, Pallando; it was a cruel slaughter, down to the last man, woman and child."

"Oh yes, Nindemos," murmured Pallando, with an abstracted air. "Hasufeld, the locals called it. I remember that village from my journey eastward. Was it ruined, then? Well, 'tis a pity. But I cannot be stayed from my purpose by such temporal considerations. I must take the long view with an eye to the future, as must you and all members of our Order."

Pallando raised himself from his cushions, and began to lecture the White Wizard with the gently chiding air of a wise schoolmaster correcting an erring pupil. "If you will the ends, Curunir, you must will the means," he smiled, spreading his hands expansively. "I cannot raise these people to the status of a powerful and civilized nation if I deny them the tools they need to strengthen themselves. Nor is it possible for me to check their every move. The Men of Targul-Rakan's generation and that of his son Jagati are raiders and plunderers by nature. That is all they have ever known. But, when their places are assumed by Jagati's infant sons, I shall set them along the path of order and discipline."

"I think it is you who are in need of a proper perspective, Pallando," replied Curunir, pointing a long finger up at his counterpart's bearded face. "You were not sent hither to forge an army for the Rhunlings. The King of Gondor would soon cease to be our friend if he saw what you have done here, and knew that your proteges were behind the disturbances on Gondor's eastern marches."

"What care I for Gondor's friendship?" asked Pallando dryly.

"I thought you once viewed the Gondor-men as models for the Easterlings?" asked Curunir. "But be that as it may, it should be enough for you that _I _care about Gondor's friendship. And, if you actually paused to reflect upon our mission for a moment, you would recognize that we cannot hope to lead Men against the Dark Lord without ensuring that the Men of the West are our firm allies. To alienate them from we Istari would be a disaster to our cause."

"My cause is first and foremost to uplift the Men of the East," replied Pallando, "and I am well along the path to so doing. How can you be so naïve as to think that such a task could be accomplished, without any friction with the Men of the West? It should be sufficient for you to worry about the West, Curunir; I shall focus my attention on the East, as I must."

"Is that so?" replied Curunir. Inwardly he was now seething with anger at Pallando's arrogant manner, as it seemed to him, but he decided to conceal his wrath for the time being. "Tell me, then," he continued, "more of what you have done for these Men of the East. After all, you must recognize that it is not enough for you to improve these Men's material capacities. What of their spirits? For centuries their ancestors were tainted by the worship of the Dark Lord. What have you done, Pallando, to set them on the path of rightiousness, to turn their minds away from the darkness and toward the light? Have you begun to turn their thoughts toward the Valar, and toward Eru?"

"Did you not see my acolytes at the feast?" replied Pallando, his eyes taking on a distinctly dark hue as he began to radiate displeasure at Curunir's insistent questioning. "I have taken the shamans of these people and placed myself at their head, so that they now follow my teachings. On all matters of the spirit, the word of Pallando, of Aral-Rakan, is now the will of the Eternal Blue Heaven to these Men. Now at least they worship the Sky, rather than the Dark Lord."

"And of course you speak with authority on behalf of the Sky?" scoffed Curunir, who could no longer contain his scorn at this glorified conjuror's pretensions. "Then these Men are still heathens, who worship merely that which is visible. Have your forgotten that the Valar only invited you to accompany our mission to these mortal lands at the last minute," he continued, "and then only because your friend Alatar insisted? You are by far the least of any of us in your wisdom or powers, save Aiwendil the Bird-tamer. Who are you, Pallando, to take the place of the Valar as the source of spiritual guidance for these Men?"

"Have a care, Curunir," warned Pallando, frowning deeply beneath his long black beard. "My patience with your poor manners grows thin. I am the master here, not you; amongst these Men my word is law. You would do well not to forget that, ere you chastise me again."

"Have a care?" replied Curunir as he rose to his feet, his dark eyes glowering. This farce had gone on long enough; it was time to set the so-called Blue Lord in his place. "Do not speak to me as if I were one of your mortal lackeys, Pallando!" continued the White Wizard. "_I_ am the head of our Order; you will take your lead from me."

"I _take my lead, _as you put it, from no one," replied Pallando coolly. "I _respect _your lore-mastery, as foremost in knowledge amongst our Order, and on that account I _welcome _your counsel and your aid; no more. And I have gained much mastery of lore myself since I arrived in these lands, though many trials and experiments. Perhaps my mastery of some fields of lore now rivals, nay, even surpasses yours, Curunir the White."

"Was that an idle boast, or merely a jest?" asked Curunir.

"It was neither," said Pallando evenly, "but a statement of fact."

"If it is a statement of fact, then it shall be put to the test," replied Curunir. A demonstration of his own lore-mastery should soon bring the Blue Wizard to heel. "Let us begin with your experiments, as you call them. What is their nature, what is their object, and what have you learned from them?"

"Ah, I knew you would be interested," smiled Pallando cryptically, who bent down for a moment, taking up his crystal staff. "In the Westlands, hindered by the petty laws of the Gondor-men, you would not have had the opportunity to work with such material as is available here. Come and see!" He turned and marched across the dusky hall, while Curunir, his skepticism at odds with a warning somewhere at the back of his mind, took up his own staff and followed the Blue Wizard.

As they reached the far end of the hall, Pallando turned from the broad, torch-lit passage that lead to the exit from the building and, moving through a narrow doorway to the left of the passage, descended a spiraling staircase, lit only by the occasional flickering torch. As Curunir followed, his nostrils wrinkled at the indescribable stench that began to well up from below, but he chose to ignore his physical discomfort and focus his attention on Pallando, who again was speaking:

"It is of course my task to improve these Men, to make of them more than they are," said Pallando, seemingly oblivious to the foulness of the air. "But I have not limited my work to uplifiting them materially or spiritually alone," he continued. "It occurred to me some time after my arrival here that Men, who are after all frail and weak creatures, could use much in the way of _physical_ improvement as well."

"Physical improvement?" asked Curunir, who began to feel his skin crawl; a sensation he imagined was related in some fashion to that feeling he had heard Men name as _fear_. "You mean to improve on the design of Eru?"

"Well, it sounds rather presumptuous of me when you put it in those terms," demurred Pallando. "I have not changed their basic design; but I have experimented with, you might say, _enhancing_ that design to compensate for certain weaknesses, weaknesses that manifest themselves in particular in a land as harsh as this one."

Curunir said nothing in reply, his mind focused now on the scene before them as they reached the bottom of the staircase. They found themselves in a small, dingy room, carved from the living rock beneath the citadel, and lit by a single torch. Various dark passageways branched off from it, one of which was secured by a solid-looking door of some heavy hardwood. On a crude wooden bench in front of the door sprawled an Orc, armoured in iron and garbed in filthy black cloth, lazily gnawing on the raw shinbone of some unfortunate creature. _At least the source of the stench is apparent, _Curunir thought to himself. The Orc, which had a large set of keys attached to an iron ring on its black leather belt, appeared to be a jailer of some sort. As it saw Pallando and Curunir, it belched loudly, and then rose to its feet, its swart, scarred features twisting into a horrible grimace that seemed both half-mocking and half-ingratiating.

"Aral-Rakan, my lord," hissed the Orc. "And it seems you've brought company from foreign parts?" His cold yellow eyes glanced up and down over Curunir, and he licked his cracked black lips with a swollen crimson tongue. Curunir's lip curled in disgust; he was tempted to smite the foul creature then and there, but refrained from doing so for the time being.

"These tunnels are Orcish mines, hence my choosing to locate my smithies and forges near them," whispered Pallando to the White Wizard. "I have made a bargain with the Orcs to our mutual advantage, as you can infer." Then turning to the Orcish guard, he said "Ugronk, this is Curunir, my cousin from the West. He is an honoured guest. Treat him with the respect that is due to him."

"Certainly my lord," croaked Ugronk, bowing his misshaped head up and down repeatedly. "And how might humble Ugronk be of service to your lordships?"

"I wish to show my guest the results of my experiments," replied the Blue Wizard. "Kindly open the door for us."

"Ah, a tour!" cackled Ugronk. "A rare treat you're in for, my lord Curunir! Sights and sounds such as you can't imagine!"

"No doubt," replied Curunir disdainfully. "Now, more door-opening and less idle prattle from you, if you please."

"As my lordship wishes," hissed Ugronk, removing the keys from his belt and insterting them into the keyhole of the door. The mechanism of the lock turned with a metallic clang, and then Urgonk pushed the door open, revealing a broad passage beyond, lined with occasional torches. It was then that Curunir first heard the _sounds _that issued forth from beyond the door; like the chittering of bats they seemed, and the barking of dogs, and a thin, hysterical tittering, mixed with other sounds that he could not describe.

Once again, Curunir felt his skin crawl, and he silently cursed the frailness of the mortal from that he had assumed.

"This way, my lords," cackled Ugronk, gesturing to the open doorway as he returned to his bench. "Enter and enjoy!"

Wordlessly, Pallando strode into the passage, followed by Curunir, who kept close behind.

"These experiments, as you call them…" began Curunir, his deep, mellow voice betraying nothing of the mounting alarm he felt welling up from within.

"You will see their fruits soon enough," replied Pallando. "It is best if you see them first, and then I will explain to you how and why I attempted them. I should caution you that the results are not yet, well_, perfect_. There is still much work for me to do. But I have already learned a great deal, more than I could have dreamed of in so short a time."

They walked along the dimly-lit passage, and then followed a sharp turn to the left, coming upon a row of dozens of iron-barred cells each containing a single occupant. The noise that came from the cells was nearly deafening, but that was not what shocked Curunir to the very core. Within each cell, dimly lit by the torches in the corridor, he could see shambling, loping _things. _

All were Man-like in shape, but none could truly be called a Man. In one cell shuffled a creature that appeared to have the head of a wolf grafted onto the body of a Man. It sniffed the air, and then opened its jaws in a hideous lolling grin as its red eyes gazed at the Wizards as it bayed a dreadful howl. In another cell, a mottled creature with the legs of a frog hopped about, incoherent grunts and wheezes issuing from its wattled throat. In a third cell, a creature with the body of a small man, but the wings and face of a bat hung upside down from the ceiling, seemingly deep in sleep. And, in yet another cell, a huge, hulking creature with the long, pointed ears and hideous visage of an Orc, but the tall, clean-limbed body of an Man stood upright, its cold yellow eyes regarding the visitors warily.

"Ah," smiled Pallando, as Curunir looked on in silence. "The others were only groping attempts at perfection on my part, but from my failures I have learned much. Here you see the results of my finest experiment yet. How are you, Thag?" he asked, addressing the Half-Orc creature.

"Care you for my welfare, master?" growled Thag, displaying its wickedly pointed fangs in a grimace.

"It speaks!" gasped Curunir.

"As thou doth speak," replied Thag, eyeing the White Wizard with a baleful glare.

"Thag I have created from the blood of Men and Orcs," explained Pallando in his thin, reedy voice. "He is taller and stronger by far than any Orc, with a keener mind, and yet he is more ruthless and aggressive and with a longer span of life than any Man. From him, I could breed a stable hybrid, one that would greatly strengthen the bodies of Men. Or, if I chose, I could breed his kind into a caste of warriors, while other Men served at other tasks. Truly, it is a waste of his potential to keep him in this cell, but the Rhunlings are not yet ready to be introduced to him. Perhaps in a few years."

"I have already had an introduction," smiled Thag, as he lifted up from the floor what appeared to be the gnawed shinbone of a Man.

"Indeed," replied Pallando primly, "there is little point in allowing the bodies of the dead to go to waste, when they can be put to use."

Curunir, still too stunned to fully grasp what he had seen, never the less managed to regain his focus and turn his dark gaze squarely at Pallando. "I have seen enough," he said. "Show me to my chambers on the surface; we can continue our discussion on the morrow."

"As you wish," replied Pallando. Turning his back on Thag, he walked down the corridor, Curunir close at his heels. They passed Ugronk, who gave them a knowing leer as he shut the door behind them, and climbed the stairs back into the main corridor of the citadel. Pallando clapped his hands, and two shaven-headed, blue-robed acolytes swiftly appeared from the shadows.

"Attend to the lord Curunir, and see him to his chambers," said Pallando, who then turned on his heel and strode towards the great hall. Curunir, wordlessly, followed the acolytes to a small stone-walled cell, lit only by the moonlight that shone through a narrow slit window, and containing only a pitcher of cold water and a leathern mattress stuffed with down. Curunir gestured for the acolytes to depart, lay down his staff next to the mattress, and then stared out the window at the Moon as he made his passage across the starry sky.

"To think that this is the same Moon that one sees from Minas Anor, from Mithlond," he whispered, "and yet here it illuminates things beyond the nightmares of Men and Elves." Long he pondered the day's events in silence, before reclining on the mattress for a few brief hours of sleep.

* * *

As soon as the Sun had risen above the Red Mountains after dawn, casting the long shadows of mountain peaks over the compound and its encampment, Curunir arose from bed. He found several strips of dried horse-flesh and a clot of butter on a brass plate that lay next to the water pitcher on the floor – presumably left there by one of the acolytes before he awoke. After breakfasting and washing his face and hands, he donned his hat, took up his ebon staff and strode down the dusky corridor to the entrance of the building. Striding outside onto the parapet before the door and into the cool morning air, he saw that Pallando was awaiting him, his bearded face veiled beneath the shadow of his own hat, leaning on his crystal staff as he across the spawling encampment towards the flat, dusty lands that lay to the West. 

"I trust you slept well?" inquired Pallando conversationally, though without turning to Curunir as the White Wizard stood beside him.

"I slept little," acknowledged Curunir, "for I have had much to consider."

"No doubt you have," replied Pallando. "I confess I was displeased by your tone as we spoke last evening. Now at least you have had some time to reflect on what you have seen, and understand the soundless of my actions, which after all serve a higher purpose."

"Indeed," replied Curunir. Pallando, perhaps unwittingly, had given him the opening he had sought. "Tell me, then, what is that purpose?"

"Well, surely you know," replied Pallando briskly. "To uplift Men, to make of them more than they are."

"But to make them into what precisely?" asked Curunir, maintaining an even tone.

"Well, whatever we wish," replied Pallando. "Stronger. Smarter. Whatever pleases us. Is it not as you yourself have said many times, Curunir? We are wiser than Men; we must lead them for their own benefit, and shape them according to our wisdom."

"I have indeed said that," acknowledged Curunir. "But you have only discussed means, Pallando, not ends. Our ends, may I remind you, are to uplift Men from the yoke of Sauron and his darkness, and to prepare them for the coming struggle against the Dark Lord, should he return from the Void."

"Have I not done so?" snapped Pallando, once again clearly displeased, and making no effort to hide his displeasure from the White Wizard as he gazed up at him, his inscrutable eyes now a dark blue.

"I am not at all sure that you have," replied Curunir somberly. _That was certainly an understatement, _he thought to himself.

"Then what fault would you find with me?" snapped Pallando. "Place your objections out in the open, under the light of the rising Sun, so that I may dispense with them. I am in no mood for games and guessing."

"I will leave aside your _experiments_, as you call them," replied Curunir, "though that is too delicate a name for such monstrosities. And I will even leave aside your making alliance with Orcs, foul creatures whom have only ever served the Dark Lord in their black hearts. No, I will leave these things aside, for the present, and focus on what you have done, and not done, with these Eastern Men themselves."

"Then get to the point," said Pallando brusquely. "Many tasks press upon me, and I will not spend all day standing here and being lectured by you."

"When these Easterlings were savages, they served the Dark Lord," observed Curunir dispassionately – though inwardly he waxed wroth at the Blue Wizard's insolence. "Now that you have uplifted them from savagery to a higher state, they serve you. Yet I am not sure the Dark Lord would be displeased at you have done, if he could see it."

"He should be displeased," frowned Pallando. "I have deprived him of a great part of his servants. These people will never again serve him again, as long as I draw breath."

"Yet you have made them stronger," rejoined Curunir, "without making them better. They still make raids upon the Westrons, they still hate the Men who should be their allies against the Dark Lord. And now they assail the West on horseback and in chariots, wearing armour of bronze and bearing weapons of iron and steel, where once they came wrapped in furs, on foot and wielding spears and arrows of flint. A formidable threat to the West have the Easterlings become, a heavy burden upon Gondor; and Sauron, who has ever hated the Men of the West, and sought to harass and destroy them, would be well-pleased at that."

"What good would it avail him?" asked Pallando. "I say again that the Easterlings serve me alone; they will no longer answer the Dark Lord's summons. Sauron would have only the Orcs at his command, and other, even lower creatures. However numerous, they are no match for Men."

"Is that so?" enquired Curunir innocently. "Only the Orcs, you say? Do not the Men of the South still worship Sauron as their lord?"

Pallando then smiled cryptically, and turned his gaze from the White Wizard back to the encampment. "Ah, Curunir," he said, "you were ever a subtle one. Now you wish to learn what I know of Alatar's dealings with the Southrons?"

"The thought had occurred to me," replied Curunir dryly. "I know that you and he are sufficiently close to each other in spirit and in your powers that you can speak directly into each others' minds, even from great distances. You must surely know all that he has done, even as he knows what you have done."

"Alatar has made…progress," replied Pallando, turning his gaze back to Curunir. "We both have, though we have only begun to exert our power." An edge of excitement crept into his voice now. "We have only to…"

"Only to what?" smiled Curunir. "To break the power of Gondor, so that the Western Men answer to the command of the Istari as fully as the Men of the East and South?"

"Ah, you see clearly indeed," replied Pallando, surprised sudden at the change in Curunir's humor. "Well, I have always respected your wisdom, as I have said. And yes, Gondor is an obstacle."

"No doubt," replied Curunir. "The Sea-Kings are stubborn, and will ever resist our rule. We have seen enough of them at Osgiliath and Minas Anor to be sure of that."

"Yes, yes!" replied Pallando, his eyes shining strangely now. "You understand fully! Our power over Men will never be complete, as long as Gondor stands in the way." Pallando strode back and forth on the parapet between the door and the stairs, words pouring out of him now like water out of a broken dam. "Oh, its Men are of use, of course; but not until their false pride is broken, and their foolish Kings are swept away. Then we can remake them as we see fit, just as we shall the Easterlings and Southrons."

"And then," finished Curunir, "with Gondor brought to heel, all Men shall answer to us alone. Curunir shall rule the Westrons, Pallando the Easterlings, and Alatar the Southrons. Is that what you intend?"

"Yes, yes, of course," demurred Pallando, turning again to face Curunir. "I understand your earlier rudeness and sulleness now. You suspected that Alatar and I meant to remove you from the equation, and rule all Men ourselves." He smiled. "I assure you, my dear Curunir, nothing of the sort ever crossed our minds. We will destroy the Sea-Kings, and then you shall rule their people in concert with us! And you are trusted by the Sea-Kings, Curunir, and can employ the power of your Voice against all but the strongest-willed of them; by their side, serving our cause in secret, you could help us to topple them swiftly."

"I understand fully," nodded Curunir. "You have waited merely for me to travel East or South, as I said I would in time, so learn if I would look favourably on your bold and cunning plan. Things will go far easier for you if I aid you in the defeat of Gondor. But Mithrandir and Aiwendil, what is to become of them?"

"The grey wanderer and the bird-tamer?" scoffed Pallando. "Faugh! You know their measure, Curunir. Let Mithrandir tend to his Elves, and Aiwendil to his forests. Their concerns are solely with things of the past; in time, they will have no place in the world that we shall build. If they steer clear of our path, we shall ignore them; if they mean to cause trouble, we shall deal with them."

"And what of Sauron?" asked Curunir, a troubled tone creeping into his voice as he raised a dark eyebrow.

"What of him?" replied Pallando, with a wave of his hand. "A thousand year ago he was utterly defeated by the actions of mere _Men_, and a handful of Elves and Dwarves. Truly, his power has been much exaggerated. He no longer even has his Ring; and without that bauble, what is he now? A Shadow of Fear. Yet fear does not lie heavily upon the hearts of beings such as you and I and Alatar. How can he withstand the three of us? If he dares to show his head, we shall subtract it from his shoulders."

Pallando smiled sagely. "No, my friend, do not trouble yourself with Sauron. Had we not been sent to Middle Earth, he might have regained some of his former power. But our coming here has spelt his doom, his utter end. He will never rise again."

"At last, all is clear, my dear Pallando," beamed Curunir, in his richest, most mellow tone of voice.

"Splendid!" cried Pallando, his eyes blazing eagerly. "Then you will join with us?"

"First, answer me this," replied Curunir, still smiling. "Have you and Alatar gone utterly mad, or have you merely lost your wits in your dotage?"

"What?" barked Pallando, his black-bearded face turning pale as he took a step backwards from the White Wizard, his eyes grey and wary.

"To be sure, I appreciate your confessing certain details of your pathetic little plan, even if you have not revealed all," replied Curunir, his smile fading as his voice took on a sterner edge. "Alatar and Pallando as the gods of Men in Middle Earth, and for a time Curunir as their adjutant – no more than that, as there will be little left of the Gondor-men once they are broken in war. You will defeat Sauron, or so you think – for it is plain that you understand nothing of the full extent of his power, which is vast beyond your imagining. Sauron was bested by Isildur through chance alone, and he will not be careless a second time."

Curunir frowned. "Your ambition, in sum," he said, "is to ensure that in the place of the Dark Lord, Middle Earth shall lie forever under the yoke of the Blue Lords. And undoubtedly, the time will come when you decide that Curunir is of no more value to you than Mithrandir or Aiwendil, and you will dispatch me as you will them. That is your plan in its entirely, is it not?"

Pallando said nothing, but he glared coldly at Curunir, the knuckles of his right hand turning white as he gripped his crystal staff.

"And I say to you, Pallando, and to Alatar," intoned Curunir solemly, "that you are both greater fools by far than Aiwendil the Bird-tamer. At least he knows his place, and does not seek to rise above it. But you – you two think that you can rise as high in Middle Earth as the Valar have risen in Aman, the very goal for which Sauron has ever sought, and Morgoth before him. You have become so intoxicated by your power over these fragile mortals that you have set yourseleves against the will of the Valar. And in all this, I deem you to be nothing more than Sauron's unwitting pawns; for I foresee that everything you have done will serve his ends."

Curunir fixed his dark gaze squarely at Pallando. "I will tell you this, Pallando; I know not from whence this crazed scheme first entered into your minds, but I do know that I shall put an end to it. And I shall begin here and now, with you. Will you renounce your amibitions, and beg the forgiveness of the Valar; or, will you force me to do as my duty requires if you defy me?"

Pallando's eyes were now the colour of glacial ice. _"Fool!"_ he hissed. "Lackey! You dare call Pallando and Alatar pawns, when you yourself are but a pawn of the Valar, their dupe! Think you they care for aught but their own power, even now when they are removed from this world? But it is you who you have reached the end of the road, _my_ _friend!_" A sinister blue glow enshrouded his crystal staff as he raised it, pointing it at Curunir, uttering in a suddenly-deep voice a Word of Command.

With a move faster than mortal eye could see, Curunir thrust his own staff toward Pallando and spoke the Counter-Spell. For an instant, the sky darkened, followed by a flash of light. Then, with a thunderous roar, Pallando was blasted off the parapet and clear down the stairs, only to land sprawling on his back in the ruddy dust below!

Curunir leaped down the stairs and was on him in an instant. But not fast enough; Pallando had already completed his spell, and now its power surged forth as inexorably as sunset is followed by sunrise. A glowing blue flame shot forth from his staff, grazing Curunir along his left arm.

Curunir gasped with pain as the blue fire scorched his arm, while smoke issued from beneath his charred robes. He could feel the scars of burns forming on his injured limb, but had not time to devote his energies to healing them; Pallando was pointing his staff at him again, this time chanting an incanation that would incinerate the White Wizard once and for all.

Enraged, Curunir decided to unleash his full power on Pallando. Thrusting his staff forward, he spoke another Word of Command. A huge fireball shot forth from his staff like a boulder from a catapult, straight towards the Blue Wizard. Instantly aware of his peril, Pallando shifted his aim from Curunir to the fireball, and the glowing jet of blue flame from his staff met the blazing fireball from Curunir's in mid-air.

The brilliant flash and mighty explosion that followed nearly blinded and deafened both Wizards, knocking them sprawling on the ground, and from it surged forth a wave of devastation. In an instant, the buildings of the compound and its surrounding wall were smashed into pieces, scattered about as if they were children's toy blocks. The tents and forges near the citadel were swept away like leaves before the wind, along with their occupants, and the noise of the explosion surged towards the very walls of the Red Mountains, from where it echoed with an ominous rumble.

Curunir was the first to recover his wits and stand to his feet. His vision was blurry, his ears were ringing, and he could feel that his body was bleeding from a number of cuts and scrapes, and see dimly that his robes were torn and nearly blackened by dust. Everything within a quarter of a mile had been devastated, and the broken bodies of the Rhunlings who had been in the nearby tents and forges were strewn around like rag dolls. Cries of shock and horror were heard from the remaining encampments, as the Rhunlings rushed forth to tend to their fallen comrades, and uncover the source of this disaster.

But Curunir paid no heed to any of these things; his attention was fixed on Pallando. The Blue Wizard, who looked as scarred and disheveled as Curunir, rose unsteadily to his feet, his hands still grasping his crystal staff. Both Wizards had lost their peaked hats, and now stood facing each other, their long black hair flowing in the East wind. For all that he had said earlier about Wizards being above fear, Pallando seemed to Curunir to be feeling its effects himself; his eyes were wide, his face stark pale, and his whole body trembling with a palsy.

Curunir lifted up his staff and strode toward him, determined to end the matter. But Pallando was not finished yet; with a wave of his staff, he spoke yet another Word of Command. There was a flash as if of lightning, and then the ground beneath his feet began to stir.

Suddenly, from the dust there surged forth great crimson-scaled serpents, their yellow eyes blazing, their jaws dripping with venom! The Rhunlings turned from their fallen comrades and screamed, dropping to the ground with horror, as the serpents roiled about, snapping and hissing with primal savagery.

But Curunir merely laughed. "Is that what you've been reduced to, Pallando?" he jeered, his voice now deep and cold. "Your old conjuring tricks?"

He made a pass with his staff, speaking the words of the Counter Spell. Instantly, the serpents disappeared, as if they had never existed. The Rhunlings were now too awestruck to do more than genuflect and pray to their Eternal Blue Heaven for deliverance. Curunir looked this way and that, seeking Pallando, who no longer stood before him.

Then he caught sight of Pallando, who stood some twenty paces away, and who had torn off his long sky-blue cloak and was holding with his outstretched left arm. He was speaking the words of yet another spell, and to his alarm Curunir realized that the Blue Wizard might have one more trick up his slieve.

Curunir moved swiftly - but while he had been distracted by the serpents, Pallando had already set to work on his next spell, the final words of which he had finished as Curunir caught sight of him. A blue vapour was already issuing forth from his staff, surrounding himself and his cape, while the East wind suddenly picked up in strength and made a sharp turn to the South. Even as Curunir aimed his staff at Pallando, the Blue Wizard's cape straighted and became a flat surface, like a sail kept aloft by the current of wind, and Pallando had leapt on top of it. And even as another fireball surged forth from Curunir's staff, the Blue Wizard, standing atop his floating cape, gave him a mocking smile as he dodged the flames and sailed through the air toward the South.

"Farewell, Curunir," came a shrill cry that receded with every second. "I told you I had learned new powers beyond your ken!" For some moments his tittering laughter could be heard, at length diminishing till the only sound was the wind moaning down from the mountain passes.

Curunir stood amazed, for he could only begin to conjecture on how Pallando had accomplished the feat of flying through the air, and how he had put up such a stiff defense. That he had survived even the first onslaught of the White Wizard was in itself incredible. Pallando had always been one of the weakest of the Order; had Alatar, who was second only to Curunir in potency, taught him new powers from afar? Or was there some other explanation?

No matter for the present, thought Curunir; at least he could understand Pallando's actions in the duel plainly enough. When Pallando failed to defeat him in the contest of spells, he had chosen to retreat southward, and that could only mean that he intended to join Alatar in the distant lands of Far Harad. There, the Blue Wizards might hope to make a joint stand against Curunir, when the White Wizard came to perform justice upon them.

For follow them he would, and find them at length he would, even if it took a hundred years; of that Pallando could have no doubt. Pallando must have realized that even though his power had increased greatly, he had done nothing more than ensure that his own death in any duel with the White Wizard would now be a matter of minutes rather than seconds. And even Alatar, though more powerful still, could not hope to match the full power of Curunir when acting alone. Only together, using their combined powers and wisdom to the utmost, could the Blue Wizards hope to destroy the White.

Regrettably, Pallando had managed to gain a considerable head start over Curunir, and his precise destination in the unknown lands of the South could only be a matter of conjecture. Curunir would have to proceed on horseback, and it might take him as many years to find Pallando and Alatar in Harad as it had taken to find Pallando alone in Rhun. No matter – the end would still be the same.

Curunir snapped his attention back to the here and now, as the terrified moans of the Rhunlings gave way to outraged cries. Turning round, he saw the bronze armoured forms of Targul-rakan and Jagati, with three-score of their warriors, striding rapidly towards him, their swords drawn, their blood-lust stirred up by the incitement of a party of blue-robed acolytes who followed them from behind. The grizzled, grey-moustiached Targul-rakan himself was babbling a string of apparent threats and insults that Curunir could not be bothered to try to understand, though he could make sense enough of Jagati's accented Westron.

"Curse you, White Demon!" shrieked Jagati, his eyes full of rage and bloodlust, far beyond fearing his own death. "You have defied and driven away our master, destroyed our encampment, and slain many of our best Men! _Aral-Rakan_ our master long warned us that you might disdain his wisdom and prove a traitor, and commanded that if you did we should spare nothing to slay you! Now indeed you shall die!"

"Is that so?" asked Curunir evenly, raising a black eyebrow. He contemplated using the power of his Voice to stay the assult of these Men, but then thought better of it; he could not be certain the effect of his spell would last for long once he had departed, and he did not wish the Eastern threat to Gondor's borders to remain unchecked.

Thrusting his staff toward them, he spoke a Word of Command that sent a broad sheet of flame hurling at his foes, mowing them down like wheat under a scythe! Targul-rakan and Jagati were reduced to ashes at once; their warriors and leading acolytes took some seconds longer to die, their curses and threats transformed into shrieks of agony before they expired.

The handful of surviving acolytes, their blue robes singed and torn, began babbling now in fear, and sank to the ground in genuflection as Curunir strode towards them. The warriors nearby did likewise, sprawled pitifully in the dust as they seemingly begged for mercy from the terrible White Lord of the West.

"It appears you will need a new lord now," observed Curunir dispassionately. He then turned his dark gaze from the Rhunlings, and strode toward a group of shaggy, tough-looking ponies who still stood tethered to a wooden pole driven into the ground, and who were on their knees, neighing in fear at what they had seen and heard. One of the ponies was saddled and equipped with a bag of food and flask of water, is if its owner had been about to take it on a journey. Curunir quickly ran his hand over its muzzle, whispering words into its ear. After a time it ceased trembling, and then stood upright, as if its fears were slowly diminshing. Untying the pony, Curunir took its reins in his left hand and mounted it, still holding his staff in his right hand as he rode through the shattered encampment like a conquering lord. Dusty and battle-worn, he looked an odd sight on the diminutive beast, with the black-booted feet of his long legs nearly touching the ground, but not one of the Rhunlings made any attempt to stay him as he wheeled his pony southward and spurred it to action.

After some time, he passed beyond the outskirts of the encampment of the _Aral-Kerulen_, and paused for a brief look backwards. His wounded arm was rapidly healing now that he had turned his mind to it, and so he allowed his thoughts to stray for a moment. The clouds of smoke and dust from his duel with Pallando still stained the sky, and a low wail issued forth, as the Rhunlings realized the full extent of their losses.

_At least, without their Great Chief or his son and heir, they will not remain united for long_, thought Curunir. _Civil war will soon break out, and they will turn from slaying the Gondor and Dorwinion-men to slaying each other as of old._ _Thus have I bought time for Gondor and the West._

Turning back to the dusty plains that lay before him, the ramparts of the Red Mountains shielding him to the left and the open steppe unfolding to his right, he spurred the pony onward, on the start of his long journey into the lands of the unknown South.


	9. Where the Stars are Strange

**IX.) Where the Stars are Strange**

Amid the deserts of Harad, which stretch for league upon league like a great ocean of sand, the lone traveler can soon become as lost as a sailor plying the waters of an unknown sea. So it was with Curunir the White. He had wandered the lands for eight years – south, ever south – searching this way and that in a vain effort to find the stronghold of Alatar and Pallando. He had hoped to hear rumor of their whereabouts, and thus find them quickly, but those hopes had been dashed. As he passed out of the steppes of Rhun into those of Khand, the land had become ever more desolate. Men were known to dwell in these lands, yet of them he could find no sign. And at length he passed out of Khand, and so into the wastes of Helcar.

Year in, year out, he searched fruitlessly, living on such meager game as he could find and catch, relying on his hardy steed to find by smell oases and their precious wealth of water and dates. His skin had been burned dark by the Sun, his body had grown as lean and taut as that of his mount, and his ragged clothes were stained dark brown by years of wear and dust. Had any traveler come across him, they might have thought him as a Southron himself, an exile perhaps, or a lone nomad who had strayed far from camp and kin.

Only in the night did he find any comfort; for then the breezes were cool, and he could gaze up at the ever-clear sky to the shining stars, which in time took on new forms and shapes the like of which he had never seen before. He mapped and catalogued these Southern stars in his mind, determined someday to write a treatise on them, when he had succeded in his quest. This determination at least helped him keep up his hopes, which otherwise would long since have faded like the dew of morning before the rising Sun.

One morning he awoke yet again to the brilliant light of dawn streaming over the eastern dunes. The Sun, which soon lay directly overhead, blazed like an angry golden eye, scouring the land, and blasting all who dared its wrath as if they were in a searing oven. Curunir ate his remaining handful of dates, sparing a few for his steed, which eyed him mournfully, and then took a swig from his flask of water. Eight days it had been since the last oasis he had encountered; he knew that if he did not find another today, he would have to turn back and retrace his steps, or else soon face the death of his mount and perhaps of his own mortal frame as well. To spare his weary steed his weight for time, he took it by its reins in his left hand, relying on his staff as a walking stick, and led the beast on foot. As they walked over the burning sands the pony's nose began to twitch, and it made a dry rattling sound from its throat that could have been a neigh; but Curunir was too tired and absorbed in his own grim thoughts to pay any heed.

Then, reaching the crest of yet another of the seemingly endless chain of dunes, Curunir stopped suddenly, hardly believing his eyes. As his pony pawed the sand and neighed hopefully, he began to laugh, a harsh, rasping sound that had not issued from his throat for many moons.

A mirage! An illusion that could afflict the eyes of a mortal. He had read of such things, but did not think to be the victim of one himself. Yet here was one before him; at the base of the dune, the sands of the desert came to an abrupt end, and beyond them, for league upon league to the southern horizon, stretched an endless sea of emerald green reeds, dappled with the blue waters of countless meres. How could this be real, when for years he had seen no water beyond tiny, shallow pools, no green, growing things beyond the handful of reeds and date palms that grew beside them?

He led his steed down the slopes of the dune regardless, curious to witness the false image dissolve before his eyes. Yet, as he neared the base of the dune, his nose and ears began to aid his eyes. He realized then that what he saw was not a mirage, but the living truth. He had at last reached the end of the desert!

He began to run towards the nearest mere, his steed breaking into a canter to keep up with his pace. The smell of green, growing things, mixed with that of something he could not recall, filled his nostrils, and his ears took in the low buzzing and chirping that emanated from the marshes, the sounds of countless frogs, and insects, and birds and other beasts. Surely, there was water and food here, enough for a king!

Reaching the flat sands by the edge of the marshes at last, the pony broke from his grip and plunged its dusty snout into the nearest muddy pool, drinking the water with deep, eager gulps. He was tempted to join the beast, but knew well enough not to trust unknown waters. Removing the saddle and its back from the steed, so that it could frolic in the pool for a time if it chose, he opened his saddle bag and took out a rag of cloth he had long since torn from his robes. This he used to filter the water from the pool into a brass drinking bowl, so that at least it was no longer stained by mud or filled with tiny writhing pond-creatures. Then, making a pass over the water in the bowl with his staff, he murmured a few words that would withdraw any remaining taint from the it, and slowly quaffed the clear fluid, as dear a draught to him as the finest wine of Dorwinion served to the King of Gondor in a golden cup.

He looked up at his steed, which had refreshed itself by rolling on its back in the waters of the mere, and was now shaking itself dry.

"Well," said Curunir. "There are still some hours of daylight left. Let us ride forth, and see if there is some patch of higher ground in yon marshes where we can camp for the night. Though even a sodden bed of reeds would be welcome after so many hard years in the barren desert."

* * *

That night, Curunir found himself sitting crossed-legged on a bed of reeds, a rare high spot in the flat expanse of the marshes. His steed stood some feet away, nibbling on fresh green reed-shoots as the marsh water lapped at its ankles. He could no longer see the dunes of the desert, merely gently waving reeds that stretched to the horizon under the pale light of the rising Moon. 

He had managed to catch a lone waterfowl and boil it in a small brass kettle using dried reeds for fuel, and filtered water from the marshes for the broth; a spare meal, but the best he had enjoyed for many weeks. The smoke from the fire had drifted for some distance into the air, but Curunir was too hungry and tired to care whether it betrayed him to any onlookers. Thus it was that he first failed to notice his pony's sudden uplifiting of its head, its ears twitching, its nose sniffing the air for hidden dangers. It whinnied nervously, but he ignored it, his dark eyes closing as he began to drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Then he heard it – the splashing, from all around, as if many small stones had been dropped into the water of the marshes. His heavy eyelids opened, and he saw ripples across the water of the nearest mere, flowing toward him and splashing against the reed-bed on which he sat. He frowned as the pony edged towards him, trying to climb up beside him. It was almost moaning, and he could see the whites of its eyes as it looked this way and that, searching desperately for – what?

_Creo-ok. _Curunir jumped to his feet, staff at the ready. The noise, which had come from the reeds to his left, sounded like the hinges of a rusty iron gate. The pony was silent now, trembling with fear.

_Creeech! _Now it was coming from his right! The pony screamed, and then leapt off the reed-bed, crashing through the water of the mere and into the reeds beyond.

"No, wait!" he cried after it – it screamed again, but the cry was cut short suddenly. He more water lapping, but the steed did not answer his calls.

C_rowlllk! _Now he heard another ghastly noise, louder, from behind. He whipped round to face it, only to hear another, and another – more and more, until the marsh was echoching with the harsh, sinister rumblings, like gravel sliding down a mountainside.

Curunir narrowed his eyes, prepared for battle. "Come forth!" he called, his deep voice echoing across the marshes in reply. "Cowards! Come forth and show yourselves!"

A high-pitched tittering was interwoven with the cacophony in reply – almost a mocking laugh, as if the hellish creature that made it knew his Voice had no power over its kind. The reeds all about the mere were rustling now, and Curunir stood still as a statue carved from marble, his staff gleaming under the rising Moon.

Then the reeds parted, and he saw_ them_. Dozens of them, flopping through the reeds on their soft, flabby legs, their wattled grey flesh wriggling with each movement like jelly, their luminous, pale green eyes glaring at him with evil intelligence as their wide, lolling mouths hung open, displaying rubbery black tongues and hideous yellow fangs. Like giant frogs or toads they were, as large as boars, but hideous and fungoid. No natural creatures of land or water were these, but unclean beasts whose forebears were surely bred in the pits of Utumno during the Age of Darkness, when Morgoth ruled unchallenged the forsaken lands of Middle Earth.

Curunir's nostrils twitched at their foul stench, which now surrounded him – like mud, and filth, and things dead and rotting. He felt his own guts heaving, but devoted a portion of his will to steadying the frail nerves of his mortal body. His mind was focused entirely on his foes.

"I know you understand my thoughts, if not my speech, in you own foul fashion," said Curunir, his voice harsh and ominous now. "That is why you have not yet attacked me, as you attacked my poor steed. You fear me – and well you should." The creatures hissed and snapped their jaws, open and shut, as the heavy air pulsated with their unnatural croaking.

"Yea, well might you fear me!" cried Curunir. "Flee this place, or you will taste not Man-flesh, but your own deaths!"

Their croaking subsided for a moment, as they glanced at each other with their leprous, glowing eyes. Then one of them began to titter hysterically, and soon its fellows joined it – a chorus of mockling laughter. They had let the prey speak its vain words – let it taste the fear of its own death, before they tasted its sweet flesh!

"So be it!" cried Curunir. Even as they leapt through the air, their thick legs springing them forward with tremendous power as their gaping mouths hung open and slavered for his blood, he spoke a Word of Power, smashing his glowing staff into the water with all his strength.

For an instant, the light of the Moon was darkened, and the waters glowed a ghostly blue. Then, with a titantic clap of thunder, the water crackled and surged with fierce lightning! Great blue bolts shot up from the water at the creatues in mid-flight, and surged forth, far out into the marshes, arcing over their fellows who remained within the reed-beds, snaking over the waters as far as the eyes could see!

The creatures' tittering was transformed at once into a chorus of ghastly wails, as they spasmed in agony under the deadly caress of the lightening. Then, before they could reach Curunir, the creatures in mid-air exploded in a sickening, putrid rain of seared, oily flesh and rancid guts. As the foul rain spattered over his face and robes, and he recoiled in disgust, he saw their fellows still in the water scream their last, steam pouring forth from their mishappen nostrils, before they turning on their backs and floated, belly-up, in the boiling, turgid waters of the marsh.

The thunder echoed across the marshes, and then died gradually, until there was a utter stillness and silence. The Moon's pale light once again illuminated the marshes, and revealed to Curunir's eyes that not one of the creatures still drew breath. The air was bitter and acrid now, and its texture singed his nostrils more than the stench of the residue that carpeted his clothes.

At length, with a weary sigh, and a blessing for his poor steed, he picked up his saddle-bag, swung it over his broad back and, using his staff to test the waters, plunged into the marshes, heading southward. He could endure a night without sleep if he must – for now he wished only to put as much distance as possible between himself and the ghastly scene of carnage.

The Moon stared down at him palely, full of pity to see a being of Curunir's dignity and power reduced to such a low estate. But He remained as ever mute.

* * *

Days passed into weeks, and still Curunir waded tirelessly through the marshes, once so welcome, but now so dismal and dreary to his sight – south, ever south. His hair and beard were tangled and matted, his feet were sodden and sore, his clothes now but tattered rags, filthy and nearly rotten. He no longed sought for game, but lived off the stringy flesh inside the marsh reeds, which he learned contained both food and clean water enough to sustain a Man; though not enough of either to satisfy his gnawing hunger, or the thirst that increased as the air grew ever more hot and steamy, even more uncomfortable than had been the dry, searing air of the desert. The flies became thick as he went farther south, until he was ceaselessly tormented by their buzzing and biting, day and night. 

Yet Curunir put aside all thoughts of his physical torment, for one obsession alone burned within his mind – to find Alatar and Pallando, and bring them to justice for their treason. That thought now consumed all else, until it seemed to his mind's eye that he was no longer a Man in body, but a great, gleaming scythe, sweeping down on the Blue Wizards, hurrying them to their inexorable Doom.

Thus it was with these dark thoughts in his mind that he did not at first notice when his feet pulled up from the waters of a stagnant mere and stood, not on yet another bed of reeds, but on soft, dark soil, covered with broad ferns and delicate bright flowers. Then the burning Sun ceased to beat down on his head, and dappled shadows traced across the loamy ground. He looked up, his dark eyes blinking for a moment before he took in the sight – a forest of giant trees, their smooth trunks soaring more than two-hundred feet into the air. Their high upper branches formed a canopy of broad, shiny leaves, and their trunks were netted together by a luxuriant network of vines, laden with heavy flowers that breathed strange perfumes. He could hear the songs of many birds, and more faintly the strange calls and cries of beasts unknown to him.

_Far Harad, _he thought to himself. _And far have I come indeed. _

He looked about, and to his surprise saw a broad path, some twenty paces to his left, marked by trampled underbrush and crushed flowers and ferns, which led from the forest toward the marshes. He walked towards it, and noted that it ended in a large pool of brown marshwater, pungent with some musky odour that he could not identify. There were deep depressions in the ground, as if made by the feet of some beast – but a beast of unfathomable size and weight.

Straightening his shoulders, and proceeding cautiously now, he turned and followed the trail into the dark forest from whence it issued. He was soon plunged into deep shadow, for beneath the forest canopy the light of the Sun was forever muted. Yet he could see clearly enough as he wound his way along the broad path. The trunks of the giant trees upheld the canopy of leaves like mighty pillars supporting the roof of a castle. The understory was full of tangled vines, of giant ferns, of huge, strangely scented flowers of curious shape, and all manner of birds and lizards, insects and serpents, all brightly-coloured and swift-moving. The air was damp and heavy, pungent with the rich, exotic scents of the forest. _If Aiwendil were here, he would think he had found the greatest paradise in Middle Earth, _thought Curunir absently.

Drops of water dripped here and there, as if it had rained within the past day or so. Little rivulets were everywhere, gurgling merrily as they wound their way north towards the marshes. Here and there the huge tracks trampled into the mud of the path had filled up with water, and Curunir had to step around them as he followed the trail.

At length, after climbing a low hillock, he reached a turn in the trail. There the trees parted into a clearing full of bright sunlight, permitting him to see for many miles southward. The forest sprawed before him, stretching without interruption toward the horizon, which was marked by a line of low, dark hills. He gazed at these hills carefully, his eyes straining with the effort, until –

Yes, there it was – smoke! A great stream of smoke, surrounded by the flickering tongues of many lesser smokes, issuing from beyond the hills. Only a city of Men could have produced so much smoke from countless fires, visible from such at distance.

"At last, my _friends_," said Curunir, smiling for the first time in ages as his dark eyes flashed keenly. "At last, I have you!"

Laughing quietly, he strode rapidly down the slope of the hillock and across the clearing, determined to make as much progress as possible toward his goal before the night set in.

* * *

Evening found Curunir encamped by a fallen, moss-covered log, as the silvery moonlight gave the forest and unearthly air, and a cool breeze through over the treetops. He had managed to catch a few small lizards, which were palatable enough after roasting over a slow fire, and was preparing to sleep for the evening. Yet, he did not lie down, for some current in the air kept him awake. He sat and listened, staring at the dim reflection of his bedraggled appearance in a shallow pool of water, and waited expectantly. 

Then, he saw the water begin to tremble. Ripples stirred the surface, in a steady rhthym. He leaned forward and placed his ear to the ground, listening.

Footfalls – of that there could be no doubt. And of a single beast, by the sounds. Yet what sort of beast could possibly tremble the earth, from such a great distance? Cautiously, Curunir poured a handful of water over the last smoking remnants of the fire and crept behind the mossy log, carrying his staff and saddle-bag with him. He crouched there, waiting, as the sound began to echo through the air – _thump_ – _thump_ –_ thump_ – _thump _– like the beating of a heavy drum from afar, each sequence of beats louder than the ones before.

After some minutes, the noise of the beast's footsteps nearly deafening now, it turned a bend in the path and strode past Curunir. His jaw dropped as he stared upward at the creature, which trampled over the path like a living mountain of grey-skinned flesh, its tiny red eyes fierce and alert, its massive ivory-tusked head and sinuous trunk swaying from side-to-side as it strode towards the distant water hole.

_Oliphaunt! _Curunir recognized the beast now, having read of it in a musty scroll in the archives of Minas Anor. _Mumak_, it would be deemed in the tongue of the Southrons. Yet unlike the wild Mumakil of which he had read, this beast's craggy back was surmounted by a castlet of wooden planks on which stood several swarthy Men, garbed in robes and tubans of crimson and azure, wickedly curved bows held ready in their hands. One of them steered the beast by means of a tiller to which were attached iron chains that descended from the castlet, and were attached by hooks to holes pierced in the Mumak's broad, thin ears.

"What mischief have you been up to now, my friends?" whispered Curunir – not quietly enough, for in an instant the beast came to a shuddering halt, let out a deafening roar, and then wheeled about, its trunk sniffing this way and that as its angry red eyes glared suspiciously into the underbrush. The Men on board the castlet sought desperately to restrain the beast; evidently, they were still new to its mastery.

Realizing that he could not hide himself for long, Curunir waited until the Far Haradrim (for such he assumed them to be) regained control of their giant mount, and then choose to reveal himself to them. Slinging his saddlebag over his shoulder, he leapt atop the log and called out "Greatings, my friends!" in the Near Haradrim dialect he had learned from an ancient scroll at Minas Anor.

"Ho! An intruder!" cried the Men – Curunir could understand their words with some difficulty, for their speech had grown apart from that of their northern kin in the deserts near Umbar. "Hands up!" they shouted. "Stay where you are!"

"Now, now, my friends," smiled Curunir, addressing them in his smoothest, most mellow tones, gesturing subtly with his staff. "I mean you no harm. I am merely a humble traveler through these lands."

The Haradrim where silent. "Merely a humble traveler…" said one of them, after a moment.

"Indeed so," confirmed Curunir. "I wish only for…"

He never completed the sentence. The Mumak, which had been glaring at him with its angry, suspicious eyes, suddenly lashed at him with its trunk, unleashing another deafening roar as it did so. Curunir, at once stunned senseless by the blow, was thrown some thirty feet through the air, landing with a dull thud amid a large fern. His staff and saddlebag landed some feet away.

"Merely a humble traveler…" repeated one of the Men doubtfully.

"What kind of talk is that?" asked another gruffly, shaking his head – evidently, he was the man's superior. "Our lords have ordered us to fetch all outlander spies that we find, and bring them to Tibasht forthwith. And they said that should we see any outlander who is of like kind to the Blue Masters, we should be most cautious, and not fetch him tither unless it be in chains, and his staff separate from him. Now we see one of like kind to the Masters, and lo! He is flat on his back, and we can make our move. A fine reward we shall receive for him!"

"Jubal! Argasht!" he shouted. "Climb down and clamp yon vagrant in irons, then bring him here. Be sure to claim his staff, and to keep it well away from him!"

Grumbling, Jubal and Argasht set about their work and soon did as they had been ordered, hauling Curunir and his staff onto the castlet with the aid of ropes. Then, with a cry of exhortation, their officer urged the Mumak forward, steering it back down the path from whence it came, toward the hidden city of Tibasht.

* * *

Curunir's eyelids flickered open and shut, briefly, as he began to regain his wits. He first sensed pain, for his body was bruised and battered by the Mumak's assault. Turning some of his powers towards rapidly healing his wounds, he then opened his eyes again, blinking several times in the harsh sunlight before he became fully aware of his surroundings. 

He was lying on his back on a hard, hot surface of rock, the Sun beating down on him from a bright blue sky, dusted with puffy white clouds. The heat was magnified by a great flame which rose from a brazier of carved bronze that lay to his right. A gentle breeze of cool air brought only slight relief from the heat of Sun and fire.

Curunir sat up, looking about, and realized that his arms and legs were shackled together by chains of iron. He looked about, turning to his left, and saw that he was not lying on the ground as he had first thought. The brazier was mounted atop the flat roof of a vast, sloping, four-sided pyramid built out of large, closely-fitted and shaped boulders of black basalt. Steps carved into the basalt led down the side of the building, a good three-hundred feet, to the city and encampment that sprawled below. The pyramid sat in the middle of a large square, flanked by smaller structures of similar type, and was surrounded by many hundreds of simple square houses and forges – though they seemed abandoned, for they no longer stained the sky with ribbons of smoke.

Beyond the stone houses was a vast grassy field that looked as if it had been trampled by many Mumakil, and which was littered with strips of canvas and stakes of wood, as if a large encampment of mounted soldiers had also been recently abandoned. On the far horizon Curunir could see a long line of low, jungle-clad hills; presumably, the very same hills he had seen before his capture, from the other side and looking south. In that case he was now looking to the north, and the Sun was rising in the east.

_Before his capture. _Curunir stared down at his iron chains again, astonishment at war with shame for mastery of his passions. How could he, Curunir the White, have been captured by mere _Men_? True, the accursed Mumak had been responsible for the deed, and the Haradrim had taken advantage of his weakness. But to have been reduced to the low state of a captive of mere mortals, and of heathen barbarians at that, was a severe, intolerable blow to his pride. Why, they had even taken his staff, the symbol and instrument of his office and his power! Curunir felt his shame ignite into a slow, smouldering fire of anger that burned deep within his breast.

"How goes it with you, Curunir the White?" intoned a rich, mellow voice that came from somewhere behind him.

_  
Alatar. _Grinding his teeth, but maintaining an impassive expression, Curunir slowly and awkwardly turned around, until he was sitting fully upright and facing toward the west.

He saw Alatar, and to his left Pallando seated atop low-backed chairs carved of ivory, and inlaid with ebony in intricate patterns. Their azure robes were sleek and well-tended, their skin rosy with health and vitality, their deep blue eyes shining triumphantly. They no longer wore their peaked hats, but allowed their long black hair to flow freely in the wind. Each bore his crystal staff in his right hand, upright and mounted firmly on the ground, as if it were the scepter of a mortal King. Their lips were curled slightly, though whether in pleasure at the sight of their captive in chains, or disgust at his filthy, disheveled appearance, it was hard to tell.

To their left, robed entirely in black, stood several curious figures. Tall and thin, with shaven pates, their visages were like to those of the Haradrim; but their eyes were grey, and they had about them an air of lingering nobility that belied their rude surroundings. One of them held up a pole to which was affixed a banner - a black serpent, on a field of red. _Black Numenoreans of Umbar, _thought Curunir, instantly recognizing the design from his studies. Another of them, the tallest, dared to hold Curunir's smooth ebon staff in his own right hand, as if he had taken possession of it. He stared coldly at the White Wizard, as his thin lips twisted into a mocking smile.

"Come now, Curunir my _friend,_" offered Pallando, in his high, reedy voice. "Have you nothing to say for yourself? You were so loquacious when last we met, and spoke so many fair and wise words. I am astonished to find you are now mute." His smile then became openly mocking, like that of the Umbarian who held Curunir's staff.

The White Wizard leaned forward slightly, his chains clanking as he did so.

"The Blue Masters; so I have heard you called by the Haradrim," Curunir replied at length, his voice deep and sonorous. "Tell me, of what have you gained mastery? Certainly not of wisdom, though you could well afford to add to your scanty store of it."

The Blue Wizards both frowned now, though the Umbarian who held Curunir's staff retained an impudent smirk.

"And thou," said Curunir, turning to the Umbarian, and rudely using the familiar form of address, "dost thou think that by clutching my staff, like an errant pupil who has stolen the schoolmaster's rod, thou shalt be spared from justice? Truly I say thy judgment lies upon thee, mortal."

"Fool!" spat the Umbarian, his dusky face contorting with rage. He replied to Curunir's jibe in his Southron dialect of the Common Speech. "Dost thou think I am mere dross, like the soldiers who captured thee? My wisdom and power are greater than thou knowest. Yea, I know that without thy staff, thou art little more than an ordinary Man, for through it thou wieldest thy power. Now, I shall use it to wield _my own_ power in thy stead Thou hast failed in thy mission, and now thou art but a lowly captive. Verily it is thee who shalt soon taste the fires of judgment!"

"Peace, Ibal," replied Alatar, whose features were now calm and serene, though his eyes flashed dangerously. "Curunir is our honoured guest, though he may not appreciate his status. It is unworthy of us to reply in kind to his ill manners."

"I beg pardon, my lord Inzullor," replied Ibal, bowing his head slightly, though his knuckles blanched white as his grip on Curunir's staff tightened.

"Inzullor," repeated Curunir. "That is your name amongst these scum, is it Alatar? It rolls off the tongue more readily than Aral-Rakan, I suppose."

Alatar said nothing, but his counterpart smiled grimly. "You never cease to amaze me, Curunir the White," replied Pallando. "Here you are, humbled before us, and yet still you presume mastery. Your pride is truly your greatest weakness."

"And your stupidity is yours," replied Curunir.

Pallando's eyes flashed with anger, and he stiffened in his chair, as if ready to leap up and smite his captive. But Alatar placed a warning hand on his arm, and he relaxed into his chair once again, though a dark frown now marred his face.

"You are as tiresome as ever, Curunir," replied Alatar evenly. "But, before you meet your fate, I am sure you would like to hear my report on what I have accomplished amongst these Haradrim. That was, in the first instance, why you sought me out as well as dear Pallando. Is that not so?"

"By all means, report on your progress. I am most curious," replied Curunir dispassionately. Apparently, despite his cool demeanour, Alatar was not above boasting about his achievements any more than Pallando had been.

"I thought you would be," replied Alatar, playing along in mock-politeness. "You have of course inferred my designs, along with those of Pallando?"

"Naturally," sighed Curunir.

"Then you will not be surprised to hear that I have also raised an army. An Army of the Southrons, just as Pallando had mustered an Army of the Easterlings."

"Did you not use that army to attack Umbar, thirty-five years ago?" asked Curunir.

"Of course," nodded Alatar. "That was but a probe of Gondor's defences. The attack had some success, thanks to our friends amongst Umbar's citizenry." Ibal smiled knowlingly.

"But ultimately it failed, since we had not sufficient troops to defeat Gondor's army," acknowledged Alatar. "While the Haradrim have spent the last decades skirmishing with the Gondor-men, I have focused on resolving the problem of our numbers. Now our army is vast indeed. And we have even tamed the Mumakil, such as the one which brought you here. They will serve as awesome engines of war, once we assail Umbar in earnest."

Alatar smiled, absurdly pleased by this discourse on his own cleverness. "We had meant to invade Gondor on two fronts, East and South. That would have brought the war to a swift and favourable conclusion for us." Alatar frowned. "But thanks to your meddling in Pallando's preparations, our Army in the East has dissolved into a quarrelsome rabble."

Pallando muttered under his breath, and glared even more fiercely at his captive.

"Yes, Pallando was _most _aggrieved by that. I do believe he holds a grudge against you, Curunir." Alatar smiled again. "But, I am happy to report that working together, he and I have built up our Army in the South beyond our fondest dreams. One-hundred thousand Mumak-riders of Far Harad, mounted on ten-thousand of the great beasts, and two-hundred thousand horsemen of Near Harad and Khand, are now at our command. Yes, three-hundred thousand Men in all. That is twice the number that are found in the entire army and navy of Gondor combined, if my memory of Gondor's archives and records serves me well and they have not since increased their forces."

Alatar smoothed a crease in his robes, and continued. "Not as great an advantage as that for which we had hoped, to be sure. And now the war will last somewhat longer than would otherwise have been the case. But the end will be the same. With the element of surprise to our advantage, and with our wizardly powers and the skills of dear Ibal and his friends deployed against the Gondorians, we shall bring the line of Sea-Kings to an end. Then our era, the rule of Men by the Istari, will begin."

"I see no army," observed Curunir innocently.

"Yet you see its deserted encampment," replied Alatar, gesturing to the north. "Already our army rides for war. The last few legions that had remained at this camp departed early this morning – indeed, you were caught by one of our last patrols. Umbar shall be our first objective. Once we have taken it and secured our flank from attack by sea, nothing will stand beween us and Osgiliath itself. Alas, we have had to wait some hours for you to gain wakefulness, so that we could offer our parting words to you." He stared at Pallando briefly, and then returned his attention to Curunir. "Pallando, and our Umbarian friends here and I shall join our brave soldiers forthwith, once you have been dealt with," concluded Alatar.

"Fascinating," replied Curunir. "But are you sure you have prepared for every obstacle?"

"There are no obstacles, beyond Gondor's army and navy," replied Alatar. "And once Gondor's army is smashed and its land occupied, its navy will soon wither and die. Our plan will not fail."

"The line of Sea-Kings in the North, in Arnor, will still exist," noted Curunir. "And they will have the aid of the Elves, should you go to war against them."

"The Elves!" laughed Alatar. "A fading people, whose time passed long ago. They are of little account. And Arnor exists in name only, as well you know. It has dissolved into a patchwork of petty dukedoms, and its so-called Kings hardly control any lands beyond a day's ride of their tower at Fornost. When we are done with Gondor, the armies of Arnor and its Elvish friends shall fall before us like ripe grain before a sickle."

"Most impressive," acknowledged Curunir. "But, what of Mithrandir and Aiwendil? Surely they will stand against you."

"Aiwendil the Brown is a fool," scoffed Alatar. "And he is by far the least of our Order. What use can he be to Gondor? Will he tell his precious birds to attack us? Order his beloved trees to assail us?" Alatar laughed at the thought. "That leaves Mithrandir the Grey. Perhaps there is some power in him, but he will not be able to withstand the combined strength of the Blue Wizards for long. Nor need you threaten us with the shadow of Sauron; he has lost his precious Ring, and now our powers far exceed his."

"You have indeed thought of nearly everything," confessed Curunir, nodding sagely. "I am almost tempted to salute you, if I could salute while confined by these chains. But, I must confess, there is one very serious obstacle to your plan that you have overlooked entirely."

"And what is that?" sniffed Pallando.

"Me," smiled Curunir. He turned to Ibal, and cried in a suddenly deep, commanding voice, "_Take up my staff and release me_!"

Before the Blue Wizards had finished leaping out of their chairs, Ibal, a far-away look in his eyes, had already pointed Curunir's ebon staff directly at the White Wizard's chains. And before they could ready their own staves, Ibal had already spoken one of the Words of Power taught to him by Alatar and Pallando.

There was a bright flash, as a narrow beam of light shot out of the staff, hitting the chains. Their locks sprang open, and as they clattered to the ground Curunir was already flying through the air, his long arms snatching his staff from Ibal's grasp. Before the Blue Wizards had finished uttering the words of their own spells, Curunir had dashed out Ibal's brains with a quick backstroke of his stave, and whipped it toward his enemies, uttering the words of the counter-spell.

Twin flashes of blue fire shot forth from the Blue Wizards'staffs, only to be met by a tongue of red flame from Curunir's. There was a blinding flash, a deafening roar, and all three Wizards were knocked flat on their backs! The brazier of fire was picked up and thrown on its side by the mighty explosion, rolling down the sloping walls of the pyramid with a heavy rumble as it spread a long trail of oil-fueled flames in its wake, tumbling across the square and amid the squat houses of the city beyond.

After some minutes, Curunir stood to his feet. His rags were now in tatters, his skin bruised and battered, his eyes blurry and ears ringing. A tricle of blood ran down from his nose, losing itself in his matted beard. He realized with surprise that for all the force of the explosion, the pyramid was still fully intact; it must have been built with much greater solidity than had been Pallando's shattered keep at Aral-Kerulen.

Curunir looked down, and saw Ibal's broken, twisted corpse sprawled on the uppermost steps of the pyramid. "Posturing neophyte!" spat the White Wizard. "The power of my Voice is enhanced by my staff; it does not depend on it. For you, a little knowledge of my arts proved deadly."

He then spared a quick glance down the steps of the pyramid. He saw Ibal's companions, their robes torn and bodies scarred and bleeding from the explosion, yet one of them still bearing the Black Serpent banner, running for their lives across the broad stone-flagged square. To poison men at feasts; to stab them with daggers in dimly lit alleys; to afflict them with curses and illnesses that brought infirmity and death; to sacrifice bound and writhing captives before an altar of flame – at these things they were proficient. To fight against the unbound White Wizard, possessed of his Staff and the terrible power of his Voice, was a challenge they would gladly leave to beings greater than themselves.

Feeling a flicker of pleasure at their retreat, Curunir then turned his full attention to the Blue Wizards, who had now risen unsteadily to their feat. Pallando's eyes, now a pale shade of blue, were wild and desperate, while Alatar's dark azure eyes were cool and focused.

"I see your friends have deserted you," observed Curunir smoothly. "Though you have poor taste in friends indeed, meddling with sorcerers of the Black Serpent cult. They have ever served Sauron in their hearts."

"They are but pawns," replied Alatar, his staff leveled at Curunir. "We control them entirely. The Haradrim serve the Cult of the Black Serprent, and the Cult of the Black Serpent serves our will."

"Perhaps," replied Curunir. "And perhaps not. Who knows what power Sauron exercises through his minions, even today? I perceive more of their deeds than you know. Was it not these Black Numenoreans, these devotees of the Black Serpent, who first whispered designs of war and conquest into your ear, Alatar? Was it not they who persuaded you to bring Pallando into the scheme? And was it not through your study of their scrolls of Sauron's lore, which the Black Numenoreans understand not in their entirety, that you enhanced your own powers?"

Pallando frowned, though Alatar's expression remained impassive. "I know such scrolls exist," continued Curunir, "for I found fragments of them during my travels in Mordor. Undoubtedly an acolyte of the Black Serpent cult could have access to an intact scroll or scrolls, hidden in secret places. Was it not through your meditations on Alatar's teachings – that is, through Sauron's darkest arts, preserved in the scrolls of his followers - that you learned to soar through the air on your cape like a bird, Pallando?"

Pallando appeared ready to answer, but Alatar gestured for him to be silent.

"And yet to study the Black Art must surely be perilous," goaded Curunir. "Who knows what what effect such study might have on one's mind? It may open a door through which Sauron can reach, subtly and secretly bending the mind of the student to his own dark will. Verily, both of you may even now be nothing more than Sauron's unwitting pawns."

Pallando then stepped away from both Curunir and Alatar, his pale eyes flicking desperately between them. But Alatar stood firm, and returned Curunir's gaze with his own.

"Peace, Pallando," he said. "Do not panic, and do not listen to Curunir's words! He seeks to use the power of his Voice to place even you under his command!"

Pallando blinked, shaking his head. Then his eyes hardened. He also leveled his staff at the White Wizard.

"A fine trick, Curunir," spat Pallando. "You almost had me, for a moment. But your Voice cannot command those who are aware of its full power, and possess the strength of will to resist it."

"Perhaps not," replied Curunir evenly. "But you know my Voice is merely one of my powers. And unless you accept the offer I am about to propose to you, then you shall taste the full extent of my strength, and of my wrath."

"What offer?" replied the Blue Wizards, warily. "Speak to the point, Curunir," finished Alatar. "We will not give you another chance to ensare us with your fine words."

"Why listen to him at all?" hissed Pallando. "I have heard more than enough from this posturing buffoon, who exceeds us only in his arrogance and ill manners."

"_Do not mock me!"_ cried Curunir, in a deep, booming voice, his dark eyes flashing with anger. The Blue Wizards stepped back from him, staffs held at the ready.

Curunir pointed his own staff toward them, his face dark and grave. "I speak now as head of our Order, and Emissary of the Valar," he said somberly. "Both of you were given tasks to perform, and both of you have failed them utterly! Repent sincerely, surrender your staffs into my custody, command your servants to lay down their arms, and then follow me into the West of this Middle Earth. In time, should you ever regain my trust, I may find new uses for you, so that you can repair that harm that you have done."

"And if we refuse?" inquired the Blue Wizards tonelessly.

"If you refuse," frowned Curunir, "I shall break your staffs, expel you from the Order, and dispatch your spirits to the Undying Lands to face the stern judgment of Manwe our Lord."

Alatar smiled grimly. "So you threaten us openly, then? Think you that you can best us together as easily as you bested Pallando alone?" Alatar's eyes narrowed. "Pallando was taken by surprise, and I was not there to aid him. But we have long expected you, and have long been prepared for your arrival. You escaped your chains more easily than I had envisioned, but you are indeed a fool if you underestimate our own powers."

"Is that your answer?" asked Curunir, with an ominous tone to his voice, now hard and cold.

"My answer is this," replied Alatar, raising his staff. "You gave us two choices; to accept or to reject your offer. I listened to your offer, for it amused me to hear you boasting, unaware as you are that your doom hangs by a thread. I now choose a third course - Curunir the Unwise undone by his own Wizardry, and then slain like the lowliest outland captive of the Haradrim."

"Aye, and afterwards his bones dumped into the offal-pit, for the delectation of vultures and jackals," sneered Pallando, raising his own staff, as both staves began to glow with an eerie blue light.

Curunir waxed wroth, his face twisting with a terrible scowl, his dark eyes blazing with anger. "So be it. You have chosen your doom!"

With a blinding flash of azure lightening, and a terrible clap of thunder that shook the pyramid to its foundations, it began; the Duel of the Wizards, of which no tale is told in the lands of Men.

* * *

The flash of lightening faded away, and Curunir's eyes widened, as he stared at the bizarre scene in which he found himself. Where a moment before he had been standing on the peak of the pyramid, it seemed that he was now in a narrow corridor carved of grayish stone, bent by twists and turns as if it formed part of a maze. The sky above was no longer bright blue, but a dull, pale violet, as if the light of the Sun had been dimmed by an invisible veil. The Blue Wizards were nowhere to be seen. 

_An illusion, _thought Curunir. But this was unlike the illusions he had seen Alatar and Pallando create in the past. It did not simply confound his perceptions of the material world; it had displaced his perception of it entirely. Curunir felt as if he had been stranded in another plane, transcending the world of bounded space and time. He knew that was impossible, that it was only his senses which had been fooled…yet the feeling was ominous, never the less.

He placed his hand against the wall, seeing if the illusion was merely one that affected the eyes. But his hand pressed up as if against solid stone. He frowned, for he knew that illusions that took solid form were rooted in spells as complex as they were powerful, and that finding the counter-spell could be a difficult matter indeed.

Thinking carefully, Curunir decided at last on the most appropriate counter-spell. Lacking knowledge of the precise formula the Blue Wizards had used to create this illusion, Curunir knew that he could only guess at the best choice of words, and test his choice through a process of trial and error, guided by his reason and judgment. Such a course could take a very long time, and could tax his powers to the utmost. That Alatar and Pallando must be hiding in the maze, and could launch an attack on him at any time, made Curunir's work all the more urgent. He could not afford to exhaust himself trying to escape the web of illusion, only to find himself vulnerable to the combined assault of the Blue Wizards.

Having selected the counter-spell, Curunir spoke the Words of Power, gesturing with his staff as he did so.

Silence. Nothing happened at all. Frowning, Curunir took a step forward, and leaned heavily on his staff as a wave of weakness passed through his mortal flesh. "What was _that_?" he whispered to himself. Surely he could not already be nearing the limits of his power, after casting a single counter-spell?

Focusing his mind, he selected from his memory another counter-spell, one that was more sweeping in its scope, even though it would consumer more of his power to use it. He spoke the Words…

…and fell to the ground, stunned. It was as if the breath had been knocked out of him by an invisible blow. A wave of weakness washed over his legs, and his head felt faint and dizzy. He lay on the ground for some minutes, battling his fatigue, before he could find the strength to pull himself to his feat, legs wobbling unsteadily, as he supported his weight on his staff, like an old Man now in truth.

With a trace of that feeling lesser beings might have called fear, Curunir began to understand the trap that the Blue Wizards had cunningly set for him, and cursed his overconfidence and carelessness. This was not simply an illusion on a broad scale; it was also a mirror, one that reflected his own power back at him. The more powerful the spell he cast, the more severely he would injure himself!

Alatar and Pallando had planned all too well their confrontation with him, should they be forced to face him in an open duel. They had reflected on his strengths, and learned how to turn them into weaknesses. Where they had gained knowledge such a mighty skill, Curunir was not certain, though he could guess that Alatar's inferences from the scrolls of Sauron's lore might have provided him with the inspiration for this deadly Wizard's Trap.

Hobbling forward slowly, Curunir began to seach for his foes. He knew that there was no way out of this maze now, unless he could somehow defeat the Blue Wizards, and force them to break their own spell of illusion. His only solace was the possibility that somehow, Alatar and Pallando might also be limited in their ability to use their powers within the maze, so that the contest with them would be one of strength and staff-play.

After following a trail in the maze for some minutes, turning this way and that, and beginning to feel a trace of strength returning to his legs, Curunir rounded a corner – and found himself staring face-to-face with Pallando.

With a sudden snarl, Curunir lashed out with his staff, a lightening-fast move that would have dashed out the brains of an ordinary Man before he could ever have hoped to react. Yet Pallando just stood there, smiling – while the staff passed clear through his head without leaving a scratch! As the false image of Pallando faded from sight, a high-pitched, mocking laugh echoed throughout the corridor, and Curunir ground his teeth in frustration.

"So this is what you are reduced to?" cried the White Wizard, his deep, resonant voice echoing down the corridors of the maze. "Cowards! Show yourselves, and let us end this here and now! If you dread my wizardly power, then let our knowledge of stave-dueling determine our fates! Do you truly fear me so much as to run and hide, when you are two against one?"

For some moments, he received silence in reply. Then a rich, mellow voice said "Should not two leopards fear to face a lion in open combat, Curunir? Indeed they should…unless they wait until he is old and toothless. Then let _him_ fear _their_ wrath!"

The walls of the maze were not real, yet they felt solid enough, and it seemed the air between them obeyed the laws of sound. Curunir gained a sense of where the sound of Alatar's voice had come from, and began to follow the twisting corridors of the maze toward his objective; now advancing forward, now diverted back, but in time coming closer and closer to his tormentors. He stumbled more than once, and felt as if he were walking downhill, even though the maze seemed to stretch over level ground.

Curunir turned another corner, and had walked down a corridor until he had nearly reached its end when he heard the shuffling of many booted feet, both behind and ahead of him. Willing his body to remain strong, he held forth his staff, ready to parry attacks from ahead or behind.

Then, he saw them – a dozen copies of Alatar, staves at the ready, walking down the corridor towards him, and as many from behind. _Although I cannot be sure they are all copies, _he realized. Taking the initiative, and summoning his remaining reserves of physical strength, he sprang forward, facing the doubles that were walking toward him head on. He swung his staff this way and that, but the staff passed through the images as if they were made of thin air. They walked through him until they joined their fellows, and turned and faced him again, perhaps a hundred paces away. Curunir leaned now on his staff, glaring at them in frustration.

Then, one of them smiled.

Curunir barely managed to leap clear of the corridor and around a turn as a torrent of blue flame surged toward him, scouring the walls with its fierce heat, its displacement of the air knocking him flat on his face. _So their own power is not mirrored by their trap, _thought Curunir, a pang of disappointment shooting through him as he realized now how dreadful was his position. He was caught like a fly in a spider's web.

While he lay on the ground, exhausted, Curunir heard the echoes of a cold laugh. "Come, Pallando!" said the voice. "The once-mighty White Wizard is at the end of his strength. Let us join together, so that we may both have the pleasure of ending his misery!" A harsh cackle echoed from afar in reply, and Curunir now heard two pairs of booted feet striding down the corridors of the maze from opposite directions, converging on him.

Though he was torn between anger and, yes, fear, Curunir willed himself to remain calm, coolly assessing the wizardly paths that still lay open before him. He concentrated his thoughts on the spell of the illusory maze, rather than the utterly mysterious spell of mirroring with which the Blue Wizards had afflicted him.

He had not time enough to guess the counterspell that would banish the illusion, and allow him to see things as they were. Nor, in his weakened condition, would this have saved him from the Blue Wizard's assault even if it were possible. However, he recognized that while the spell of mirroring inflicted grave injury on him with every use of his wizardly powers, it did not render those powers utterly ineffectual. If only he knew the right counter-spell, he could still banish the illusion of the maze, no matter that it would cost him dearly, perhaps bring him near death. But if banishing the maze would be fruitless in any case, what was he to do?

Then, a last, desperate hope occurred to him. He had inquired into the various wizardly arts studied by all members of the Order, and while he had spurned those of Radagast the Brown as beneath his further attention (unwisely, he had since realized), he had gained some fluency in those powers used by the Grey and Blue Wizards. Though he had not done so before, he could delve into the Blue Wizards' arts to cast a spell of illusion of his own – a simple spell, hardly above a conjuror's trick, a spell of so little power that the mirroring spell with which he was afflicted could not reflect his power with such force as to destroy him.

Or so he hoped. At any rate, it was his last chance. Curunir's staff began to glow with a pale aura as he chanted the Words.

There was a sudden flash, and then he fell into darkness, and knew no more.

* * *

Pallando strode down the corridors of the maze, eager to destroy his victim now that he and Alatar had had the chance to gloat over him. He had lusted for revenge ever since the humiliation Curunir had inflicted on him eight years before. It was for this reason that he had urged Alatar not to kill Curunir at once, when fortune had unexpectedly laid the White Wizard at their feet, insensate and deprived of his staff. Alatar had felt it was for the best that they would no longer have to use the wizardly trap they had long prepared for him, and could kill him swiftly and simply instead. But Pallando had insisted that his vengeance would not be complete until Curunir had suffered his own bitter humiliation. Let Curunir first know that the Blue Wizards were had utterly defeated the White, before destroying him…to a being as proud as Curunir, that would be the ultimate torment. 

Alatar had smiled at the prospect of the White Wizard lying abased before them, aware of his own failure, and had then approved of Pallando's plan of first tormenting their captive. Curunir's subsequent escape from his chains had been unforeseen, and the loss of their henchman Ibal had been unfortunate, but no matter. The Blue Wizards had simply sprung their long-planned trap. Indeed, Curunir's escape had proved fortuitous for the Blue Wizards, since now he had learned not merely that he had failed, but that was truly less of a Wizard in strength and skill than his erstwhile friends.

As Pallando smiled at the thought, he rounded a corner into another corridor, and nearly shouted for joy at the sight before him. Curunir the White, garbed in shapeless, filthy rags, his hair now turned as white as his robes had once been, his features aged and drawn, his gnarled hand still clutching his ebon staff, lay sprawled on the floor as if dead. His breathing was shallow and irregular, and it was plain that only a trace of life remained within him.

Pallando was tempted to dash out his brains forthwith. But, he knew Alatar would wax wroth if he were denied the pleasure of a common kill. Not wishing to incur the wrath of his more powerful counterpart, Pallando waited for Alatar to appear from the opposite end of the corridor. He could hear his footsteps and his clacking staff even now, closer and closer by the moment.

There was a slight shimmer in the air, and Pallando blinked. His blood ran cold as he saw that Curunir was not yet finished! He had lept up from the ground, dark eyes blazing fiercely, his lips soundlessly forming a Word of Command as he leveled his ebon staff at the Blue Wizard.

Instantly, Pallando raised his own crystal staff in defense. He had not time to ponder how Curunir dared to defy the spell of mirroring in order to cast a lethal attack spell against his foe. Ignoring the nagging voice at the back of his mind, Pallando felt a thrill of anticipation leap through him as his own staff discharged its fiery missle before Curunir's could respond in kind…

* * *

Alatar walked down the corridor, his staff clacking on the stones as he prepared to bring this business to a close. He would have killed Curunir long before, when the White Wizard was a bound and helpless captive, but he had decided to humour Pallando's request for a more elaborate scheme of vengeance. And, he had to admit, Pallando had been correct. Witnessing Curunir's humiliation, his _awarenes_s that he had failed, that he was weak, had indeed been most satisfying. 

Alatar thanked himself again that he had closely studied the Scrolls of Sauron. Penned over a thousand years before in Sauron's own hand for the benefit of his most favoured mortal worshippers, the King's Men of Numenor, those scrolls were the most highly prized treasures of the Cult of the Black Serpent, which kept them hidden in secret shrines in the desert. Alatar had learned many strange and terrible things from those scrolls, and he had inferred from them many things beyond the imagination of Sauron's mortal acolytes. Combining Sauron's knowledge with his own, he had forged new powers for himself, and even taught several new skills to his weaker counterpart Pallando. Without the knowledge he had gained from Sauron's writings, Alatar had to admit, he and Pallando could never have defeated Curunir the White. For while White was the strongest power within the Order, Black was in truth the strongest power of all.

Turning his mind back to the here and now, Alatar reflected that the game of cat-and-mouse he and Pallando were playing with Curunir had at last drawn near its close. He would derive some further satisfaction from delivering the final blow, but then he and Pallando had to move quickly. Already their army was more than a day's march away as it surged toward distant Umbar. And already, Alatar's thoughts were drifting from this wizardly duel, to the defeat and subjugation of Gondor by the Blue Wizards, the new Lords of Middle Earth.

As he turned round the corridor, he stopped and stiffened with alarm at the sight before him. Curunir was not lying on the ground, as he had anticipated. He was standing again on his feet, pointing his staff at Alatar, speaking a Word of Command in a thin, strange voice.

Then Alatar's alarm turned to stark, naked fear, as he realized what was happening. Too late, he tried to speak directly into Pallando's mind, to warn him…

* * *

As the missle of blue flame from Pallando's staff struck Alatar squarely in the chest, the spells of illusion and mirroring they had forged together dissolved at once. In an instant, the Blue Wizards were revealed to be standing in the stone-paved square at the base of the pyramid. Curunir lay sprawled on the ground between them, insensate, suspended between life and death by the insidious effects of the mirroring spell that had nearly destroyed him. Thus he never saw the terrible consequences of the spell of illusion he had cast in the duel, his simple conjuring trick. 

Alatar's skin was at once immolated by the searing jet of blue flame. As he fell on his knees, screaming in agony, his terrible cry was echoed by Pallando. For the Blue Wizards had ever been linked in their powers and essences, two sides of the same coin. That was both their greatest strength, and their greatest weakness. For Pallando to have unleashed his full power against Alatar was to have it hurled back in all its fury. It was as if he had unwittingly cast a mirroring spell against himself.

As Alatar's physical agony reached its climax, he lost all control over the power trapped within his mortal frame. Even as his lifeless body dropped to the ground, his crystal staff, the symbol and instrument of his power, exploded in a whirwind of a thousand tiny, jagged shards, each reflecting the sunlight as if it were a gleaming gem before falling on the ground in a rain of dust.

Pallando's staff, bound to that of Alatar, exploded in the same instant and in the same manner. Pallando let out a last, terrible cry, his hands clutching his withering face that bled from ears and eyes and nose, before he too dropped to the ground, lifeless as a stone. As he and Alatar had been bound together by their power in life, so their power had bound them together in a common death.

The corpses of the Blue Wizards, one burned beyond recongnition, the other drained of all vitality, swiftly crumbled now that they were no longer sustained by the life force of the spirits within. Even as the flesh dissolved entirely, leaving nothing but dessicated bags of skin and bone enshrouded by blue robes, two tall, shimmering strands of azure mist arose up from their remains. The twin mists soared into the air, twirling around each other, glowing faintly from within as they sought vainly to summon enough power to form new mortal bodies for themselves. Then a sudden gust wind from the West, swift and cold, swept over them. As the mists dissolved into nothingness, two long, lingering sighs echoed between the pyramids, and across the empty square.

* * *

How vast and empty was the Void, thought Curunir. He no longer had eyes to see, nor ears to hear with. There was nothing but the darkness, black as pitch and cold as ice, stretching into infinity and sweeping into eternity. How Curunir was aware even of his own existence, when he no longer possessed substance, he did not know. He only knew that he was utterly alone, far beyond the reaches of bounded time and space. There was nothing but the Void, and his awareness of the Void. 

_So this is what death means to a mortal_, thought Curunir. The words formed silently in his consciousness. He had always assumed that should his mortal body die, and his spirit be unable to remain within the Circles of the World, then he world return to the Timeless Halls of Eru Illuvatar. In those Halls he had been been formed from the thoughts of Eru, immemorial ages before, when the World was as yet undrempt of save in the mind of The One alone. _And who can know the mind of Eru? _So even the Valar asked themselves. Thus, Curunir realized he would never know why Eru had denied his return to the Timeless Halls, and instead had cast his spirit into the Void. He knew only that he had tried his utmost to fulfil his quest, but that he had failed. It seemed Eru was not inclined to reward him for his failure.

For uncounted aeons, ages and ages of length unfathomable even to the immortal Elves, Curunir was suspended in the Void. Then he became aware of a subtle, yet growing change. The Darkness was no longer emptiness. It had taken on substance – vast, cold, menacing, full of malice. And it was aware of _him_! Curunir was consumed by terror as he felt himself under the merciless, penetrating gaze of an all-seeing Eye, an Eye that had no form, yet was the very essence of the Darkness.

At length, the waves of pure hatred that scourged Curunir's consciousness changed in pitch and subtlety. There was no sound, yet it was he could hear them nonetheless. The Darkness was laughing at him! Yes, it was laughing; a laugh so cold, so deep, so terrible, that Curunir wished nothing more than the peace of oblivion, rather than to endure such horror for another instant.

But it was not to be. The laughter was fading now, and in its place was a voice, as deep and cold and terrible as the Darkness itself.

"_You fool! The Easterlings and Southrons have awakened, and they have grown stronger than ever! The Orcs multiply in their caverns, fell beasts stalk the woods! You fool, you have come too late!_"

* * *

Curunir awoke with a start. His body, frail and in pain, gasped for air. The sky was dark and cloudy, and it was raining heavily, round drops that beat endlessly against his flesh. His throat was parched, and so with effort he rolled onto his back and opened his mouth, drinking in the water as it tricked between his parched lips and ran down into his gorge. 

For some hours Curunir lay there, the hard stones of the square that lay before the great pyramid digging into his back, as he fought to restore health and vitality to his mortal body. He knew not how long he had been insensate before awakening – hours, days, weeks. He had lost all sense of time. When he looked down, he could see that the strands of his long beard and hair had turned from dark to white, as if his mortal body, which ordinarily was preserved from decay by his spirit, had been greatly aged by its ordeal.

He was cold, he was hungry, and he was in pain. All these things could be remedied. Yet he could not shake from his mind the echoes of that terrible voice, as if it were still whispering mockingly into his ear. _You fool, you have come too late_…

With a sudden burst of effort, Curunir sat upright. He realized he was still clutching his staff in his long, thin hand. Using it as a crutch, he slowly rose to his feet, and stood for some minutes, his legs wobbling unsteadily, as he reflected on the fate of the Blue Wizards. There was nothing left of them but some ragged scraps of skin and bone, wrapped in sodden azure rags that had been covered by a fine sheen of white mildew. He realized his own rags had almost disintegrated, yet that did not quench the spear of pity he felt piercing his heart.

"Why did you do it, my friends?" whispered Curunir. "To what purpose? You were trusted by the Valar, trusted by us all. Was power over these fragile mortal Men really so important to you? Did your study of the Black Art enslave you totally? Did you really fail to realize that Sauron used you as his pawns?"

As he spoke the name of Sauron, he thought of that mocking laugh, that terrible voice. _You fool_…All pity was quenched in Curunir's heart as a wave of anger surged up from within. Sauron the Abhorred! For a thousand years that demon had been without form, and yet everything that had transpired here had been his doing. Through his Black Serpent cult and his scrolls of lore, he had used the Blue Wizards as his unwitting pawns. And thanks to him, the Order of the Istari had been reduced from five to three, and even now a vast army of Southrons was bearing down on Gondor, bent on reducing the mightiest bastion of the Sea Kings to ashes.

Curunir waxed wroth, as he remembered that mocking laugh in the Void. "Do you really think you are more powerful than me, Sauron?" cried Curunir, his deep voice echoing across the square. "Do you think you can mock me with impunity? We shall see!"

And yet his own power, he knew, had been nearly bested by that of the Blue Wizards, merely by their applying Sauron's Black Art against him in a duel. Should Sauron take form again – no, _when_ he took form again – would Curunir truly be able to defeat him, even though he no longer possessed his legendary Ring? Was White truly stronger than Black, or was Black stronger than all?

In his heart, Curunir knew the truth now, and despaired. He realized bitterly that unless he could access the power commanded by Sauron himself, and turn that power towards the service of good, then he had precious little hope of defeating the Dark Lord of Mordor. Without equaling the Dark Lord's own power, he would never be able to save Gondor from…

Gondor! Willing himself to be calm, Curunir turned away from the pitiful remains of his erstwhile friends, and turned his gaze to the leaden skies that lay to the north and west. Their Blue Masters had been destroyed, and yet there was no doubt the chieftains of the Southrons, doubtless unaware of the fate of their Masters, would spur their forces onward in their drive to capture Umbar. Curunir resolved that he must search through the empty stone barrack-huts of Tibasht to find what he needed to heal, feed, and clothe himself, obtain a mount, and then fly towards Umbar with all speed. The King would need his help, if Gondor were to defeat the vast menaceunleashed by the treachery of the Blue Wizards.


	10. The Battle of Umbar

**X.) The Battle of Umbar**

"Form the line! Ready the cavalry! Hurry!" With these words, King Ciryaher of Gondor, his grey eyes flashing fiercely, prepared his Men to face the awesome force that the Southrons had arrayed against them.

The gates of Umbar had been shut, its battlements lined with Gondorian soldiers and their engines of war. The harbour was full of Gondorian naval ships, ready to resupply the Citadel and evacuate the wounded as required. Along the margin between the date orchards and the desert sands that lay beyond the Eastern gate of the city were drawn up in a long row, three lines deep, heavy Gondorian infantry whose broad black rectangular shields and black tunics bore the design of the White Tree, the symbol of Gondor. Their shields were raised, their long spears at the ready. Beside each regimental colonel, his silvered helm marked by a white plume, a standard bearing the White Tree design was held up by especially experienced and honoured soliders every five-hundred paces, the silvered designs decorating the shaft beneath the black banner marking the different regiments.

On the north and south flanks of the infantry were rows of heavy Gondorian cavalry, their mounted knights entirely encased in steel armour devoid of any tunic, their rounded shields and lances held ready for the charge. Their steel arms and armour glinted under the glare of the rising Sun. They sweated uncomfortably inside their armour, which was made for more northerly climes; it was already fiercely hot though but the second hour past dawn. Their eyes squinted as they stared into the rising Sun, though they could not tear their gaze from the sight of the Southrons' vast army.

Arrayed in an arc in front of these vast bodies of Men were parties of light infantry and cavalry, garbed in stiffened black leather reinforced by steel armour on the chest, forearms and shins, their heads protected by steel caps of lesser weight and size than the full helms worn by their heavy infantry and cavalary counterparts. Some were deployed as forward scouts, while others were already engaged in skirmishes with the advance parties of the enemy. All told, this army of Gondor in the field totaled fifty-thousand Men, with another ten-thousand manning the battlements and guarding the Citadel of Umbar, and a further two-thousand manning the ten ships-of-war in the harbour.

King Ciryaher and his generals occupied a place on the ground between the heavy and light infantry. The King's position was marked by a large black banner bearing the design of the Royal House of Gondor – seven stars surrounding the White Tree, surmounted by a crown. Mounted members of the Royal Household Guard, their silvered armour polished to a high sheen, formed a defensive screen around the King and his generals, the latter of whom were marked by their gold-trimmed helms and their bejeweled scabbards bearing swords of especial magnificence.

The King himself was mounted on a magnificent black stallion, his silvered armour embossed by gold filigree, his shoulders and back covered by a long sable cloak, a broad black shield bearing the arms of the Royal House slung over his left forearm. He bore on his hip a longsword in a golden scabbard bearing a magnificently gemmed hilt, and a winged and bejewlled silver battle-helm protected his head. He was a tall and powerfully built man, well over six feet in height, and of a more warlike and adventurous disposition than had been his late father Ciryandil, who had perished near this very spot in a battle with the Haradrim. Though now well past sixty, the blood of Numenor flowed strongly in his veins, and his appearance was that of an ordinary Man of no more than forty years, his neatly trimmed beard and long brown hair framing a high-cheekboned, handsome face. Yet his grey eyes were both cold and fierce, and of all the commanders of the Army he alone seemed without even a trace of fear as he gazed at the sight before them.

Throughout the two-thousand year history of Umbar, it had often been harrased by raids of the Haradrim. A party of many tens of thousands of them had even come close to capturing the city thirty-five years before, only to be defeated and scattered in the battle that had claimed the life of Ciryandil, and led to his son Ciryaher assuming the throne. Gondor had remained wary of the Haradrim after that, but had not expected they would ever be able to assemble an army of more than fifty-thousand men at any given time – an army not more than one-third the size of Gondor's entire military force.

Yet now the Southrons had assembled an army so vast, its like had not been seen since the days of legend! In the sands of the desert, facing towards the West with the suns at their back, were full three-hundred thousand Men of Near Harad, and their close kin of Far Harad, the Variags of Khand. All were mounted warriors, for the Southrons did not fight on foot save when they dismounted for brief raids and skirmishes.

Their cavalry alone, mounted on the magnificent steeds whose possession was the chief pride of every man of Harad and Khand, numbered full two-hundred thousand. Deployed along their frontmost ranks was a broad wedge of Variag light cavalry. The fierce Variags, whose cruelty and ruthlessness were the stuff of legend, spurned armour as the refuge of cowards, and took pride in displaying openly the scars of many battles. Riding their steeds bareback, they were garbed in vests and pantaloons of soft brown leather, their flowing black hair framing clean-shaven faces painted red with ochre, their long, curved swords held above their heads as they cried out with ghastly, indescribeable screams and ullullations. Small groups of Variags occasionally broke off from the wedge, riding forward to skirmish with the light cavalry of Gondor. They either returned to the wedge in triumph bearing the severed heads of Gondorians, or remained as corpses amid the sands, slain from a Gondorian sword-stroke. A Variag returned from battle with a trophy from his enemies, or else did not return at all.

Deployed behind the wedge on each of its flanks were vast columns of heavy cavalry from Near Harad, garbed in colourful robes and steel-capped turbans, their chests and shins protected by iron plates, bearing broad round shields, each with its own unique, intricate design painted upon it by its owner. Many held long javelins at the ready, while others were armed with powerful compound bows of horn and sinew. They stroked their black beards and jeered loudly, ritually displaying their contempt for their enemies, the soldiers and cavalarymen of Gondor.

Yet it was not the Southron cavalry that caused the Army of Gondor to stare and gape with a mixture of wonder and horror. For amid the Southrons' forces, behind their light cavalry wedge and flanked by their heavy cavalry, were beasts the like of which the Gondor-men had never seen before!

They had heard fantastic tales of the Oliphaunts of Far Harad, of course. Yet they never thought to see such legendary beasts with their own eyes. Full ten-thousand of them stood there in row upon row, each like a small mountain of grey-skinned flesh, each bearing a wooden castlet on its broad back filled with ten archers of Far Harad. The beasts shook their tusked heads from side to side, pawing the sand with their vast feet and rending the air with their earth-shattering roars.

Stationed in the sands between the light cavalry wedge and was a small party of several-dozen tall, lean men, mounted on black steeds and garbed in black robes, their shaven pates glistening in the heat of the Sun. One of them held high a banner portraying a black snake atop a field of crimson – the ancient standard of the Umbarians in the days of their glory, and of their illustrious forebears the Black Numenoreans, who in the distant days of Ar-Pharazon the Golden had styled themselves the King's Men. These Umbarians, members of the dreaded Cult of the Black Serpent, were the leaders of the Southron army, sending and reciving messages from the chieftains of the Variags and Haradrim who served as their commanders.

Had King Ciryaher and his generals been able to hear the urgently whispered words spoken amongst the Black Serpent cultists assembled under their banner of crimson and sable, they might all have taken heart. For the army of the Southrons had been dispatched on its march to Umbar by its supreme lords, the Blue Masters, their deputy Ibal, and two of his aides. They had stated that they would catch up with the army within a few days, once they had disposed of a troublesome captive, a wretched outlander garbed in rags.

For six months, the Southron army had progressed on its march, west through the jungles, and then north along the coast, avoiding the high desert so that their Mumakil could find sufficient water in the many streams found in those lands. They had cut inland through the desert but a few days before, so that they could attack Umbar in the morning from the east, and keep the Sun to their backs in the eyes of their enemies. In all that time, the Black Serpent cultists had expected the Blue Wizards and their deputies to catch up with them, just as they had said they would. Yet, they had never arrived. The superstitious chieftains of the Variags and Umbarians had begun to fear this was a bad omen, and it had taken many lies and threats of sorcerous retribution to force the chieftains to toe the line.

Then, just this morning, as the army had drawn up its lines within sight of Umbar, facing the waiting Gondorians whose scouts had brought warning of them some weeks before, Ibal's two exhausted deputies had arrived hot on their heels. These two claimed that the wretch for whose sake the departure of the Blue Masters had been delayed had escaped his chains, slain Ibal, and then after a brief duel had disappeared from sight in a flash of azure lightening, along with the Blue Masters themselves! The deputies had fled in terror, always a day or two behind the Southron army, and had only now arrived in time to bring the grim news.

After much debate, the Black Serpent cultists had agreed that this news must under no circumstances be brought to the ears of the Variag and Haradrim chieftains. Instead, they told the cheiftains the Blue Masters had sent word they and their lieutenant Ibal the Sorcerer would not attend the battle themselves, but would use their powers to assist their army from afar, while placing leadership of the army in the hands of their Black Numenorean followers. The chieftains had grumbled at this news, and further threats of supernatural vengence had been required to induce them to form up their Men and beasts and prepare for a battle forthwith.

Still, while the Black Numenoreans who lead the army of the Southrons were secretly full of doubts, that was unknown to King Ciryaher's generals, whose own minds were gravely troubled. It was not merely that the Gondorian army they had assembled in their view entirely inadequate to defeat such an unexpectedly vast force of Southrons in the field – they would have needed thrice as many Men for that purpose, not even taking into consideration the unknown threat posed by the Oliphaunts. Umbar itself was rife with rumours that Black Serpent cultists hidden within the city walls were stirring the population into open revolt against their hated Gondorian occupiers. If the army of Gondor found itself beset by Southrons to their front, and a city in open rebellion to their rear, they would have no choice but to retreat to the Citadel or else evacuate such Men as they could in the waiting ships.

"The ships are too few!" growled one of the King's generals, a great bear of a man with graying black hair, Sun-bronzed skin and hard brown eyes. "They can evacuate His Majesty and the cream of our army, but no more. The rest will have to hole up in the Citadel, and wait for reinforcements to deliver them. Only when another hundred-thousand troops have arrived can we defeat the Southrons in open combat. Curse our scouts, for underestimating the size of the Southron army! They must only have encountered their vanguard, and thought it was their entire force. Not until after we mustered all our army detachments in Harondor and assembled them here three days ago did the scouts begin to send word of the main body of the enemy, not to mention their Oliphaunt beasts. If we only had brought more Men in the first place, we might not be in this fix now."

"Reinforcements?" snapped another general, incredulously. His long, grey hair framed a once pale face burnt pink in recent days by the southern Sun. His pale blue eyes blinked repeatedly in the glare from the shimmering sands. "We only sent a ship to Pelargir calling for reinforcements two days ago, General, and those troops will take nearly a month to be mustered and arrive here. The Citadel does not contain enough food to support all the remaining Men in our army for so long, if the city is taken and they are cut off from the harbour by an insurrection. We were relying on the ships of our Navy to supply us with foodstuffs from Pelargir. And who knows what those mountainous beasts, those Oliphaunts, can do? Mayhap they can smash through walls of solid stone! Nay, I tell you we must engage in an orderly retreat by land, evacuate the garrison in the Citadel by ship, burn Umbar to the ground, and let its ashes be occupied by the Southrons. If we can fight our way in a disciplined retreat to the Crossings of Harnen, and make it to the other side of the river, then we might have some hope of holding the line along its northern shore until the reinforcements arrive by way of Pelargir and Ithilien."

"There will be no evacuations and no retreats, gentlemen," replied the King calmly, in a smooth, deep voice resonant with authority. "We are here to fight, not to flee before these dogs."

"But my liege…" replied the generals, desperate to make their King see reason before he led his army to annihilation.

"I have heard your arguments," replied the King with a dismissive wave of his mail-gloved hand. "But in your focus on tactical points, all of you have forgotten the broader issue of strategy. We cannot afford to lose Umbar, nor even to retreat within its walls, except in the utmost need. If the enemy can capture Umbar, or pin us down within its walls, then Gondor's southern defences will have failed entirely. Our forces cannot hope even to retreat to the Crossings of Harnen, before those crossings are taken and held by the Variag horsemen, who by all accounts from past skirmishes can travel cross-country twice as fast as our own cavalry. If we lose Umbar, or are trapped within, then there will be nothing to prevent the enemy from striking clear into the heart of Gondor."

He frowned, his mailed hands tightening into fists. "If the Southrons can surge up the valley of the Anduin unopposed, they will cut our empire in half, lay waste our richest and most densely populated lands, and even bring siege and ruin to Osgiliath itself. Can you imagine how our proud and spoiled citizens in Osgiliath would react if they found themselves under siege by a horde of baying savages and their giant beasts?"

He shook his head. "There would be panic and rioting, bloodshed in the streets. It would be the end of Gondor as we know it, even should we ultimately defeat the enemy. It would take the rest of our lives to even begin to repair the physical damage, and twice as long to restore the morale of the people."

He took hold of his long sword, and pulled it from its sheath, so that its silvered blade gleamed brightly in the Sun. "Therefore, gentlemen, I say again there shall be no evacuations or retreats. Indeed, before riding through the Eastern gate to meet you here in the field, I had already ordered our fleet to depart the harbour of Umbar for Pelargir. They should be weighing anchor and preparing to set sail as we speak."

"Why in the name of the Valar did you do that?" cried several of the generals, forgetting their manners and etiquette in their alarm.

"To, shall we say, enhance your motivation," smiled the King. "Before I rode out from the walls at dawn, I had already heard gossip from your adjutants that you doubted our ability to attain victory this day, and talked of retreat. Now you must understand that there will be no comfortable retreat by sea for the lucky few. We will either win this battle, or come to a bitter end in this accursed land."

His smile disappeared, as his face formed into a stern, hard countenance. "And that is enough talk. I have already given you your tactical orders. Now, gentlemen, is the hour when we must all draw our swords! For Gondor!"

His generals, their discipline taking hold, drew their own swords, raising them on high like those of the King. "For Gondor!" they cried, dispersing and returning to their commands, as their King rode back to the lines and took his place with his bodyguard at the vanguard of the heavy infantry. "For Gondor! For Gondor!" cried the officers, after their generals, and soon all the Men of the infantry and cavalry, and their distant comrades on the battlements had taken up the cry, clashing their spears against their shields as their blood went up, and their steeled themselves for battle against the enemy.

Meanwhile, the Southrons, hearing the battle-cry of their hated enemies, readied themselves for the attack. The Variags' ululations became even more shrill and frenzied, the Haradrim on their steeds began clashing their javelins against their shields in like manner to the Gondor-men, and the archers mounted on their Mumakil began a deep, harsh, bloodcurdling chant as they worked themselves into their battle-fury.

Sensing for their own part that the time for debating the fate of the Blue Masters had come to an end, the Black Serpent cultists who led the Southron army now focused their attention fully on the tasks before them. One of them held up a long, fluted brass trumpet, and let forth a shrill, high-pitched note that echoed above the cries and shouts of the army, and was heard even as far away as the twisting streets and bazaars of Umbar.

The Variags, their bloodlust at a fever pitch, spurred their mounts forward, and a cloud of sand and dust soon rose hundreds of feet into the air as they charged in wedge formation straight toward the light infantry and cavalry of the Gondor-men.

The Gondorians, familiar with the Variags' wedge tactic, moved smoothly and swiftly to counter it. As their light cavalry dispersed to flank the Variags, their light infantry formed into a reverse wedge, in parallel to the Variags' formation, so that the Variags would charge between their flanks and be surrounded by them on both sides. The light infantrymen thrust their long spears into the ground, waiting patiently for the assault of the enemy.

The Variags, reckless as ever, charged straight between the wings of the Gondorian light infantry, hoping by their momentum to smash through its apex and surge forward till they faced the heavy infantry beyond. With all their attention focused towards their front, they were heedless of the movements of the Gondorian light cavalary, who now formed up swiftly behind their rear, blocking their retreat so that they were surrounded on all sides.

Screaming with blood-fury, the Variags charged right into the waiting spears of the Gondorian light infantry. Their screams were soon matched by those of their unfortunate steeds, as the beasts were skewered on the long spears of the Gondorians. Meanwhile, the Gondorian light cavalary surged into the rear of the Variag's wedge, lancing the Variags' unarmoured backs.

Pressed between the Gondor-men's light infantry and cavalry, the Variags could hardly even wield their swords, and began to slash at their own comrades in their desperation to join the enemy in combat. The rear lines of the Gondorian light infantry had already drawn their swords and climbed through the ranks of their front line spearmen, hacking at the legs and flanks of the Variags' steeds in order to bring them down and dispatch their riders.

The Gondorian heavy cavalry began to cheer as they witnessed from afar the Variags consumed by a dreadful slaughter. But they soon turned their minds to their own tasks, for the heavy cavalry of the Haradrim had not been idle. Fanning out into two broad lines of lancers and mounted archers, it now began to charge past the northern and southern flanks of the Gondorian heavy cavalry contingents in an obvious move to outflank the Gondor-men and cut off their lines of retreat to the city.

Moving swiftly, the Gondorian heavy cavalry rode through the orchards and formed up in long lines behind and perpendicular to their heavy infantry, to block the Haradrim outflanking maneuver. The Haradrim, their charge slowed as they crossed from the open desert into the groves of date palms, were forced to meet the Gondorian heavy cavalry face to face, and were soon engaged in pitched combat. But for all their long javelins and powerful compound bows, which could pierce armour of steel plate, their own lighter armour left them at a severe disadvantage when facing the lances and longswords of the Gondorian knights.

Satisfied by the progress of the battle, King Ciryaher smiled confidently as he witnessed from afar the last of the Variags perish beneath the swords and spears of his light infantry and cavalary. He dispatched messengers to them, and under his orders his light infrantry dispersed and reformed behind the lines of the Haradrim heavy cavalary, so that the Haradrim, though they outnumbered their foes, found themselves assailed both from the front and the rear. The light infantry broke into columns which formed to the north and south of the heavy infantry, their bloodied swords held at the ready so that they could be harass the flanks of the enemy's next charge.

Meanwhile, the Black Serpent cultists, who had moved to the south of the Mumakil brigades, smiled in their turn. Thus far the battle had proceeded according to their plans, which were based on the tactics drawn up months before by their Blue Masters. The sacrifice of the Variags and the bogging-down of the Haradrim heavy cavalary had been but diversionary moves, designed to thin-out the Gondorian forces. Now the time was ripe for the charge of the Mumakil. They let out another shrill note on their brass trumpet, and then waited.

Their chanting at a fever-pitch, the archers of Far Harad, mounted atop their Mumaks, were thrilled to at last be unleashed. As their chant reached a crescendo, the Mumak-drivers prodded their mounts onward, and the huge beasts roared deafeningly as they began to charge, their heavy feet slamming into the ground with such force that the earth began to tremble violently, as if the land itself could not withstand their awesome fury.

King Ciryaher's smile failed now, but he sent word up the lines for his heavy infantry to brace their long spears and hold them at the ready. Realizing that he had erred tactically in dispatching his light cavalry to harass the Haradrim cavalry, when they would have been of more use in slashing at the tendons of the Oliphaunts, he sent messengers bearing urgent word for the light cavalry to withdraw and re-form itself alongside the lines of light infantry north and south of the main army.

His messengers had not been gone for long when he realized that these orders were in vain, for the Oliphaunts charged with a speed that was incredible for beasts of their vast bulk. Roaring in fury, their small red eyes glinting angrily, the vast columns of beasts smashed head-on into the ranks of the Gondorian heavy infantry, their heads twisting back and forth as they used their mighty tusks to sweep the Gondorians' long spears out of their path.

King Ciryaher's mount screamed in fear and threw him from its back, moments before it was crushed beneath the immense foot of a charging Oliphaunt. The King slammed into the ground and lay there, gasping for breath, staring upward in awe as countless massive beasts surged over him. Only by keeping flat on his back and in the narrow space between their massive legs did he manage to avoid being crushed under their heels.

The King's heavy infantry fared far worse than he did. Their spears swept aside by the Oliphaunts tusks, they had not even time to draw their swords before they were crushed under foot. The Haradrim archers mounted atop the Mumaks began to unleash volley after volley of arrows into the heavy infantry, the arrows from their compound bows slicing through the Gondorians steel armour and cutting them down like flies. The Gondorian archers who formed the third row of the heavy infantry fired their own volleys back in reply, but while many of the Haradrim archers were slain by these volleys, the Oliphaunts themselves seemed only to be further enraged by the arrows that lodged in their heavy folds of skin, without being in the least harmed by them. Roaring in fury, they charged straight at the archers, smashing clear though the second line of heavy infantry. Then countless archers were trampled under foot, while others were gored on the Oliphuants' sharpened tusks.

Meanwhile, as the Gondorian heavy cavalry desperately engaged the Haradrim cavalry in order to keep open the lines of retreat to the city, the the Gondorian light infantry and cavalry had not been idle. Once the light cavalry formed up alongside the light infantry, they charged at the flanks of the Oliphaunts, hacking and slashing at the beasts' tendons with their longswords. Many brave soldiers were trampled underfoot, but they were faster and more maneuverable than their heavy infantry counterparts, and thus many others found their marks. The Oliphaunts whose tendons they sliced open reared up in agony and rage, only to crash over on their sides, bearing their mounted archers to their doom as their wooden castlets were smashed into pieces and the Gondorian light infantry ran amongst them, slaying them mercilessly. Other Oliphaunts, reacting with fury and panic to the bellows of their wounded kin, began to scream and rampage back and forth themselves, throwing off their riders and attacking each other in their madness.

As the Sun rose higher in the sky, and the desert sands burned under its fierce rays, the lines of both Gondorians and Southrons lost any semblance of order as the entire battlefield degenerated into a chaotic, bloody rout. Oliphaunts were running rampant, sometimes attacking the Gondorians, sometimes attacking each other as their riders struggled to control them. The Haradrim heavy cavalry had suffered terrible losses, yet even so it still vastly outnumbered the Gondorian heavy cavalry, and random skirmishes between them were being fought all across the battlefield. The sand and dust thrown into the air by the charges and counter-charges of small parties of desperate Men from both sides covered the entire battlefield in a thick haze, choking Men and beasts as they frantically hacked and slashed and gored each other in their fury.

One party of Gondorian light cavalry, narrowing evading the charge of an enraged Oliphaunt, rode almost headlong into an amazing scene. Standing atop an ever-growing pile of Haradrim corpses, King Ciryaher of Gondor was engaged in desperate, bloody combat against dozens of Haradrim warriors who had been thrown from the castlets of Mumaks which had been laid low by the tusks of their rampaging kin. Many of the Haradrim had lost their arrows, but others continued to fire them at the King, whose broad shield of triple-plate steel, laden with so many arrows it looked like a pin-cushion, had alone preserved him from death. Even so, he had taken one arrow in the thigh of his silvered armour, and another in the shoulder. Incredibly, he fought on, using his heavy longsword to rain a storm of blows on his adversaries, who ran at him again and again, slashing at him with curved daggers when their arrows were exhausted.

"To the King! To the King!" cried the cavalrymen, and they charged the Haradrim from behind. Taken unawares by this sudden charge, many Haradrim perished at once, and the rest turned and fled, though not before felling a few of the lightly-armoured Gondorian cavalrymen with their arrows.

"Your Majesty!" cried the Gondorian cavalry officer, the once-white plume of his silvered helm spattered red with blood. "You are gravely injured! Where is your bodyguard?"

"All dead," gasped the King, gasping with weariness and grimacing with pain. "They died in the first charge of the Oliphaunts. How I survived, I know not." He began to wobble unsteadily, and then sank to his knees.

"Quickly, lads!" cried the officer. "Help him mount a steed!"

While the others formed a defensive circle, two of the men quickly dismounted, removed the wounded King's battered, arrow-laden shield, cleaned his bloodied sword on the robes of a fallen Harad-man and resheathed it in its bejeweled scabbard, and then helped Ciryaher mount a horse which had but moments before lost its rider. Once the King sat firmly in the saddle, clutching the reins, the cavalrymen screened him as he rode forward, weaving though a thick could of dust, dodging past another charging Oliphaunt and the hail of arrows from its Haradrim archers before they found another clearing amid the chaos.

The King turned to one of the cavalrymen, who bore a battered silver trumpet on a chain slung over his shoulder.

"Can you sound that trumpet loudly enough for other trumpetrs to hear it, and repeat the call?" he asked wearily.

"Of course, my liege," nodded the man, his youthful face twisted with worry as he stared at his injured sovereign.

"Then sound the retreat," replied the King, gazing downwards. "Retreat to the Eastern gate! We can no longer endure the fight out here. I was a fool to think we could."

"Your Majesty," replied the man somberly. Taking up his trumpet, he sounded the retreat, four short, swift notes, repeated again and again. The blasts from the trumpet carried far, and were soon taken up by the surviving trumpeters who heard the call amid the din of battle.

"Now ride for the Eastern Gate," cried the King. "Ride!"

Galloping as fast as they could, the cavalrymen and their King wheeled about, passing through the thickest coulds of dust, until they found themselves within the date groves that fringed the city. The retreat had been sounded by all the surviving trumpeters now, and the remnants of Gondor's army in the field – cavalry and infantry, both heavy and light – wheeled about and made for the city, the cavalry fighting a desperate rearguard action against the Haradrim horsemen and Oliphaunts to provide the Gondor-men on foot sufficient time to retreat within the city's walls.

Already, a sizeable column of Gondorians had managed to make it within the Eastern Gate. Yet as the King looked westwards towards the city, he could see several columns of smoke rising from some of the less wholesome quarters of the town. Angered and alarmed by this unwelcome sight, he spurred his steed through the gates, and hailed an officer, who was rushing from the nearby barracks towards the stairs that led to the battlements.

"You there, captain!" cried the King.

"My liege!" saluted the panting officer, stopping his run at once and standing at attention.

"What is this smoke rising up from within the city? What is happening?"

"The accursed Umbarians, my liege!" shouted the officer. "Traitors amongst them have stirred them up, telling them that their kin shall soon liberate them from the yoke of Gondor. Now riots are flaring up all over the city!"

The King nearly screamed with frustration at this news, though he managed to retain his royal dignity. He had planned to order the Men on the battlements to use their catapults in a sustained bombardment to drive off the Oliphaunts and Haradrim cavalry once they were within range. How could he afford to pursue this course now, when the entire city might flare up in mass rebellion at any moment, trapping the Men on the battlements between bloodthirsty Haradrim to the front, and vindictive Umbarians to the rear? He had only one choice.

"These are my orders," said the King. "As soon as the Haradrim are within range, discharge the catapults at them, to ease the retreat of our forces into the city. Once the last of our Men are safely inside the city, close and bar the gates. But then, before the Haradrim can muster another charge, our Men on the battlements must step down and retreat into the Citadel, along with the rest of our army. Our only hope now is to hold the Citadel, until the reinforcements arrive by way of Pelargir and Ithilien."

"What of our settlers, my liege?" asked the officer. "They are in grave peril."

"We shall allow them into the Citadel if they can reach it, naturally," replied the King. "But I fear we cannot afford to scour the streets of city, searching for them one by one to lead them to safety. That would cost us precious time, and only lead to many more of our soldiers being killed by the rebels and outlanders."

"I understand, my liege," frowned the officer. A grim decision, but he knew it was necessary.

"Here!" cried the King, removing a mailed glove from his right hand, and taking off a golden signet ring, grimacing with pain from his wounded shoulder as he did so. "Use this ring as my token of authority for this order! Ensure that your superiors obey my commands!"

"It shall be done, my liege!" cried the officer, who took the ring, saluted, and then scurried towards the stairs adjoining the nearest battlements.

"Come!" cried the King, turning to his party of cavalrymen. "I am wounded and in pain, and have great need of a doctor. We must make for the Citadel ourselves at once!" He wheeled about, screened by his light cavalry as he rode past the streaming column of bloodied, exhausted infantrymen hurrying toward the Citadel.

At length they passed through the barricades outside the Citadel's only gate, which faced west toward the public square and the harbour, and they entered into the cool recesses of the marble-columned entrance hall. The King dismounted and stood on his feet, wobbling slightly, before crashing suddenly to the ground. The cavalarymen likewise dismounted and rushed to his aid, frantically calling for medics, who soon appeared on the scene.

Meanwhile, as the last of the surviving Gondorian infantrymen passed through the Eastern Gate, the cavalry were being pressed back through the date fields by the Haradrim. Once they saw that the infantry had made it into the city, the Gondorian cavalrymen then turned towards the Gate themselves and spurred their steeds as they ran for their lives, the bloodthirsty Haradrim and ferocious Oliphaunts hot on their heels. The heavy doors of the Eastern Gate were slammed shut just moments before the vanguard of the Haradrim reached the city walls, the Oliphaunts surging through the date groves not far behind them..

The King's orders had by this time been passed along the walls, and no sooner had the Gate been closed than the catapults were unleashed against the Haradrim cavalry and the Mumakil. A rain of missiles, boulders and flaming pitch descended on the Southrons, slaying many of the Mumakil outright, and driving the rest into a chaotic, panicked retreat. Many of the Haradrim cavalry were also slain, though others dodged the missles and began hammering on the gates with the hilts of their long swords, screaming with fury for the blood of their foes. The Mumak-riders had by this time regained control of their beasts, though they now formed them up in a line just beyond the reach of the catapults, waiting for the Gondorians' next move.

But no further missiles were sent over the walls, and it was soon apparent why. The Gondorian guards stationed on the walls had already evacutated them, running down the stairs to the nearest thoroughfares, and streaming in orderly columns towards the Citadel. Not a moment too soon, for the fires of arson and the cries of looters and rioters were mushrooming across the city with incredible speed. Angry mobs of men and women, bearing illegal weapons they had kept hidden for many years, were forming in the streets, under the command of cryptical figures dressed in robes of sable. Slaying the handful of brave Gondorian settlers who had still dwelt in the city, as well as the known and suspected Umbarian collaborators, and burning the shops and homes of both, many of the rabble pressed toward the Citadel. They moved with increasing speed as they reached the broad and straight thoroughfares of the ancient Numenorean core of the city, threatening to cut of the escape route of the Gondorian forces. Others rushed towards all three of the city's gates, opening them from the inside.

The Haradrim cavalry gave a trimumphant cry before surging through the Eastern Gate in pursuit of their hated Gondorian foes. They were hailed by the jubiliant cries of many Umbarians who greeted them as liberators. The Mumakil now pressed through the date groves, right up to the city walls. They proved too large to pass through the gate, and thus while most of them fanned out along the city walls to the Northern and Southern gates, in order to prevent any of the Gondorians from escaping, many of them awkwardly lowered themselves to the ground so that their archers could dismount and pass through the gates on foot.

The last lines of retreating Gondorian cavalry and guardsmen, now found themselves harassed by angry mobs on all sides, and pursued by Haradrim cavalry and archers in hot pursuit. The Gondorians were hardened warriors, and easily cut their way through the mobs. Even so, many of them were slain by the stray blows of Umbarians, and the expert attacks of Haradrim, before the last survivors managed to retreat within the safety of the Citadel. Its heavy iron gates were closed by the action of levers and chains, snapping shut with a resounding clang against the polished marble of the fortress wall.

By this time the afternoon was well-advanced, and the Sun was already beginning to sink into the West, staining the sky with a ruddy glow that was reflected by the shimmering waters of the Bay of Umbar. As a vast mob of torch and pike-bearing Umbarians and heavily-armed Haradrim surrounded the Citadel, they hammered against the gates, driven back by hails of arrows and missiles from the walls, only to surge back again, the Haradrim archers firing their own storms of arrows over the Citadel's battlements at their unseen foes.

As night fell, and the stars began to shine in the swiftly darkening sky, their cleanly light was mocked by a tapestry of angry red torches that spread across Umbar, clustering about the walls of the beleaguered Citadel. The Black Serpent cultists who had led the army of the Southrons now rode within the gates, greeted by a party of their fellows, and then made their way towards the heart of the city.

Thus, in a single day, Gondor's Army of the South been devastated by a humiliating defeat, and the road north lay open for the Haradrim to sweep into the heart of Gondor's empire, even to the Eastern Gate of Osgiliath itself.

* * *

King Ciryaher lay in a large, comfortable bed in the marbled chambers which were reserved for his exclusive use during his visits to Umbar. The smooth white walls were decorated with delicate patterns inlaid with ebony and gold, and lit by many heavy bronze candelabra. The King was dressed in a long, simple tunic of soft white wool, which hid from view linen bandages wrapped around his left thigh and shoulder. The surgeons had removed the arrows (which thankfully had not been poisoned) that had been embedded in those places. With the aid of soothing poultices and pain-killing draughts, the King had begun to heal himself, and draw once again on the immense store of innate vitality that was his by virtue of his ancient Numenorean lineage.

His mind turning aside for the time being his sorrow at the terrible slaughter of his loyal Men that had witnessed that morning, he was already formulating new, if desperate plans. He weighed in his mind many different stratagems for holding the Citadel against the vast mob hammering at its gates, until the reinforcements from Gondor could arrive to defeat the Haradrim that would garrison the city and restore order – a deliverance he could not expect for nearly a month. He did not care to contemplate the condition in which the settled lands of the Vale of Anduin would find themselves by that time, having faced the onslaught of the bulk of the Haradrim's forces.

The steel shutters on the narrow slit windows in the Western wall of the chamber had been closed and barred, to prevent any stray arrows from finding their way through. Even so Ciryaher could hear clearly the angry shouts and cries of the mob, and the howls and jeers of the Haradrim. He cursed them them all at length, and then turned his attention back to his plans. As he sipped warm, spiced wine from a golden, bejeweled up, and mulled one stratagem over another, he heard a knock at the heavy polished doors of solid ebony that led to the anteroom beyond his private chambers. He looked up, and saw a guard poke his silver-helmed head through the crack between the doors.

"Your Majesty," said the guard.

"I gave you strict orders I was not to be disturbed until morning!" cried the King. "I am wounded and tired. Can I not have a few hours of peace, before girding myself for the hard day of work that lies ahead of us?"

"Forgive me, your Majesty," replied the guard sheepishly, "but you have a visitor. He must speak with you at once."

"Tell him to cast himself into the Sea!" snapped the King. "I'll receive him along with the other generals after I have breakfasted at dawn."

"He must speak with you at once," repeated the guard, opening the doors and allowing the visitor to enter.

Astonished by this open disobedience, Ciryaher was about to leap up from his bed, wounds or no wounds, and severely reprimand the guard, when his unwanted visitor strode through the doors. The Man's ebon staff clacked on the marble tiles of the floor, and his long, brightly-coloured robes trailed behind him.

Ciryaher stared at his visitor, dumbfounded, as he dropped his gilded cup to the floor with a clatter, sending its precious contents spilling over tiles.

"You!" he cried, unsure whether he was asleep or awake.

"I do have a proper name, your Majesty," smiled the man, his dark eyes gleaming strangely amid his lean, sun-bronzed face, framed by tangled white hair and beard. "Several names, in fact."

"Curunir the White!" replied the King, abashed. "I have not seen you in more than forty years! Not since you tutored me in the archives of Minas Anor, where my late father had sent me to finish my education. I was barely more than a youth then, and you were already an old Man. How can you still draw breath, if you be not of the blood of Numenor?"

"You might say I am of a vigorous line myself, O King," smiled Curunir. "Though you can see my beard is white, now."

"Aye, that it is," murmured the King. "Well, no matter. But how did you get here, through that mob of savages and traitors outside the gates? And what are you doing in that ridiculous garb, dressed as if you were one of the Haradrim yourself?"

"That is a long tale, your Majesty," sighed Curunir. "Too long to tell in full, at least for the moment. Suffice to say that for many years I have been exploring the lands east of Anduin. In time I found myself in the southlands, and came across a plot by the Haradrim to attack Umbar and invade Gondor. They tamed Oliphaunts, or Mumakil as they called them, for use in war, as you have learned to your chagrin. I disguised myself in their garb, stole a stray horse of theirs, and rode hard for Umbar."

Curunir frowned. "But alas, the journey took many months, and I set off too late; the Southron army was always several days ahead of me. By the time I arrived at the Southern gate of Umbar this afternoon, the battle had already been fought and lost by Gondor, and the gates of the city had been thrown open by the treacherous Umbar-folk. Disgusied as a Haradrim rider, though, I had no difficulty entering the city and making my way to the public square and the gate of the Citadel. It was more difficult to convince your guards to let me in, before they closed the Citadel gates. But," he smiled, "I can be very persuasive."

"So it appears," said King Ciryaher, getting up from bed and limping over to a high-backed ivory chair. Signalling to the waiting guard to close the doors, he seated himself, and gestured to Curunir to join him in a nearby chair.

As Curunir took his own seat, he continued, "When I had heard you were being tended to by your surgeons, I withdrew, taking some much needed food and rest. Then, when evening came, I arose and sought you out in your chambers."

"And here you are," the King said wryly. "It seems I might as well not have guards standing in front of my chambers at all. In any event, I am glad to see you alive and well, my old friend. But alas, indeed, that you have come too late. I had thought to defeat the Southrons in pitched combat, but now I recognize that my cautious generals were correct, and I was reckless and foolhardy. Their Oliphaunts, or Mumakil as you called them, are a foe the like of which we have never fought before. Our tactics were more than adequate to handle their cavalry charges, as I thought they would be, despite the fears of my generals. But once they charged us with their Oliphaunts, the game was up. And the treachery of the Umbar-folk was the final blow. Curse the lot of them!"

He sighed heavily. "I am wracking my brains to determine how we can hold out 'till our reinforcements arrive from Pelargir. My generals tell me that we lost near twenty-thousand Men on the field of battle today. Even so, between the survivors of our army, the garrison on the walls, and the guards of the Citadel, there are full forty-thousand Men crammed within this keep. There are cisterns of spring water within the Citadel, of course, but we have food enough to last so many men for no more than two weeks. And I know not how long our store of arrows and missiles will hold out. I rashly dispatched our ten ships in the harbour to Pelargir, so that my generals' courage would be stiffened by the realization that they could not hope for an easy retreat if the battle went ill. But, thanks the treachery of the Umbar-folk, no ship can weigh anchor at the docks of Umbar in any case. Our ships would have to land along the shores of the Bay, and our reinforcements besiege the city walls from without." He sighed. "And what will become of our rich lands in the Vale of Anduin when the main force of the Haradrim surges through them, I care not even to think."

"Fear not, your Majesty," smiled Curunir. "I have arrived too late to warn you, but not too late to succor you. If you will accept my aid, then the army of Gondor shall stand victorious on the field of battle by the end of tomorrow."

"How is that possible?" asked Ciryaher, his grey eyes narrowing with skepticism. But as Curunir explained his plan, the King's eyes widened in wonder.

"If you can truly wield such powers, then you are mightier by far than any King in your own right," marveled Ciryaher.

"I merely seek to do what I can to aid Gondor," demurred Curunir. "And to speak plainly, I do this less for Gondor's own sake, than for its importance in the broader scheme of things. Dark times are coming to Middle Earth, and Gondor is a rock that must weather the storm. On this all depends. But, to return to the present, do you assent to my plan?"

"I do indeed," nodded the King gravely. "I only hope that it will work."

"Have no fear, your Majesty," smiled Curunir. "I shall not fail you."

* * *

As the Sun rose over the sands of the desert to the east, she gazed upon a scene of chaos and ruin. The broken bodies of tens of thousands of Men and beasts, Gondorian and Southron, lay scattered across the battlefield, a ghastly reek beginning to rise as the heat of the Sun spurred them to a swift decay.

The walls of the Umbar were surrounded by thousands of Mumakil and their riders, the bulk of whom it seemed had managed to survive the battle. The riders remained aboard their beasts, while the archers had descended to the ground, and made camp in the shade of the date groves, their chieftains pitching tents for themselves and celebrating their triumph with drunken revelry. Within the city walls, countless plumes of smoke were rising from scattered shops and houses, testament to the fearsome revenge that the Umbarians had inflicted on the handful of ill-fated Gondorian settlers as well as collaborators of their own blood.

The Central Market and plazas surrounding the high white walls of the Citadel were thronged with countless thousands of Umbarians and Haradrim, bearing all manner of makeshift and genuine weapons. Most of them kept their distance as they exchanged volleys of arrow and missile fire with the Gondorian soliders who lined the battlements of the Citadel. But small parties of brave warriors, shields slung over their backs, were constantly rushing the gates of the Citadel with battering-rams cut from the date palm trees, each party mananging to land several blows against the heavy iron gates before being cut down by arrows from above. The gates were strong enough to be impervious to such assault, but this display of bravery by the Haradrim demoralize the Gondorians, not one of whom had any idea how they would survive once their store of arrows and of food ran low.

Suddenly, a word was given on the battlements, and the Gondor-men withdrew. The Haradrim and Umbarians held back at first, expecting some sort of trick. But when several volleys of their arrows went unanswered, they were suddenly exultant, and rushed towards the gates and walls of the Citadel. They took up more battering rams and began hammering at the gates relentlessly, eager to break through and deal death to their cowardly foes inside. The Black Serpent cultists stood by, urging the Haradrim to smash them open, and let the slaughter begin.

Suddenly, a lone Man appeared on the parapet high above the gates. He was dressed in the bright, flowing robes of the Haradrim, but his visage was that of an outlander, and he bore a strange staff of ebon, capped by an opaque white sphere. His long white beard and hair were rustled by the searing air of the East wind.

"Greetings, o devotees of the Black Serpent!" said the Man, speaking in an antique dialect of Near Harad. His voice was deep and resonant, and echoed for miles, leading the mob of Umbarians and Haradrim to cease their labours and stare at him in silence.

"Who art thou?" cried one of the Black Serpent cultists, a twinge of fear growing at the back of his mind that he had seen this outlander before, albeit in different garb.

"Surely you remember me," smiled the Man. "My name is Curunir the White. We met atop the great pyramid of Tibasht, some months ago. Your friend Ibal the Sorcerer would surely know me, if he had not departed the lands of the living."

The Black Serpent cultist turned pale, along with his comrades who had been present at the pyramid of Tibasht. The other cultists glared at them, and then stared warily at this mysterious stranger. The chieftains of the Haradrim who stood nearby began to mutter darkly amongst themselves at the news of the death of Ibal, whom they had long counted as a sorcerer of great renown.

"I bring tokens from your Blue Masters," smiled Curunir. "Shall I give them to you?"

"Yes, give us the tokens, outlander!" cried one of the Haradrim chieftains, a scowl on his swarthy face. "These Serpents claim to speak on behalf of the Blue Masters, yet for months they have given us no proof of their authority." The Black Serpent cultists gave the man a murderous glare, but soon returned their attention to the foe on the battlements.

"So be it," replied Curunir. Laying aside his staff, he disappeared behind the parapet for a moment, and then reappeared, bearing a large saddlebag of cured leather, painted in the style of the Haradrim.

"Here are your tokens!" cried Curunir. "Read them and take heed!"

He opened the saddlebag and emptied it over the parapet, sending the contents tumbling to the stone flags of the square below. The Black Serpent cultists jumped back, only to stare open-mouthed in horror as they saw what had fallen to the ground; two shattered, mouldering skulls amid fragments of bone and crystal, swathed in two unmistakable robes of sea and sky blue. The Umbarians present frowned in puzzlement, but the Haradrim warriors and their chiefs appeared thunderstruck.

"Do you not like them?" asked Curunir, again taking up his staff and waving it in a subtle gesture, his sallow face bearing a mocking smile. "Are they not pleasing to you? Surely, my Haradrim friends, your Black Serpent leaders informed you that the Blue Masters were dead? It would be shocking if they had deceived you, falsely claiming to speak on their behalf."

"Lies!" shrieked one of the cultists desperately. "Do not listen to him!"

Some of the Haradrim chiefs drew their curved swords and stood beside the cultists to protect them, but many others screamed curses and threats at the cultists and their loyalists, accusing them of base lies and treachery. The Umbarians fell back, alarmed by this turn of events, as the Haradrim warriors began to line up behind their respective chiefs, shouting curses and jibes at each other as was their custom from the days of their tribal feuds.

"Nay, it is the Black Serpents who have lied to you!" cried Curunir, his dark eyes flashing fiercely as he turned his attention to those Haradrim confronting the cultists and their loyal followers. "Kill them, both Serpents and false Men of Harad! Kill them all!"

Howling with rage, the Haradrim chieftains whom Curunir had addressed unsheathed their swords and charged at the Cultists and their own Haradrim followers, who in turn called on their warriors to aid them. Within moments, the Haradrim in the square had formed into two broad camps, hacking and stabbing at each other ferociously in their bid to either kill or protect the Black Serpent cultists, depending on where their loyalties lay. The Umbarians, full of fear and doubt, swiftly withdrew from the square, retreating down the streets and alleys of the city into their own homes until they could learn which side had won the debate.

The words spoken in the Voice of Curunir seemed like an infection that struck the Haradrim listeners with fury, and which was passed on to those Haradrim with whom they came in contact in a spreading wave of madness and violence. The fighting in the square soon spread throughout the city, as the ancient tribal feuds and blood vendettas that the Blue Wizards had held in check suddenly resurfaced. Believing their common enemy the Gondorians to be defeated, and freed from any shackles of restraint by their Blue Masters, the Haradrim turned and fought ferociously against each other, clan against clan, tribe against tribe, until the fighting spread beyond the city walls and amongst those Haradrim camped amid the date groves. Even the Mumak-riders joined in, leading their mounts against those of rival clans, until the fields outside the city walls were soon thundering to the clash of the giant beasts, in an echo of the previous day's battle against the Gondorians.

All day long the battle raged, from the docks by the harbour to the desert sands far beyond the city, as the Haradrim tore into each other with incredible ferocity. No quarter was asked or given, and no prisoners were taken. The streets and alleys of Umbar ran red with the blood of the Haradrim, which filled the drains and ran towards the shore until even the waters of the harbour were stained with ichor. The dreadful slaughter of Mumak by Mumak was relentless, for those mighty beasts, driven mad by the scent of their own kindred's blood, were so full of rage and fury now that they blindly tore into each other, heedlessly trampling the Haradrim underfoot, far beyond the control of their doomed riders. Those horses of the Haradrim whose masters had been slain fled in terror, scattering far beyond the city in all directions in order to escape the clash and din of battle and the reek of blood and death. The Umbarians trembled with their mud-walled houses or pillared mansions, wishing fervently that they had never allowed their distant Haradrim kin within the gates of the city.

Had the entire Army of Gondor fought against the Southrons for fully a week, it could not have inflicted on them the carnage they wrought against themselves within a single day. And the Haradrim owed their doom solely to the efforts of Curunir the White. Indeed, in later years, it became a proverb amongst the folk of Umbar that _A Wizard's voice is deadlier than a hundred-thousand swordsmen_.

Curunir himself watched the bloody scene unfold from the battlements, his face and eyes devoid of passion. Then, as the Sun began to sink into the West, and its ruddy glare stained the distant Sea as crimson as the bloodstained waters of the harbour, he judged the time was right to administer the coup de grace. Descending from the battlements into the Citadel, he gave the signal to the Gondorians to unleash the final stage of his plan.

To the clear peal of silver trumpets, the gates of the Citadel were lowered, and the cavalry of Gondor, from the leather-clad lancers to the steel-armoured knights, surged forth into the square. Dividing into three columns under the leadership of three generals, they poured along the main thoroughfares, North, South and East, that led to the three gates of the city wall. They took utterly by surprise and devastated the diminished, exhausted and disorganized forces of the Haradrim they found along their paths. Meanwhile, the light and heavy infantry of Gondor followed in their wake, slaying those Haradrim they found along the city walls, retaking and closing the city gates, and fanning out through the narrow streets and alleys of Umbar, breaking into the houses and confiscating the weapons of the thoroughly cowed and demoralized Umbar-folk.

All throughout the night, the streets of the city echoed with the clash of sword on sword, and screams of anguish and despair, as the remaining desperate Haradrim were slain both by Gondorians and their own kin, while the surviving Black Serpent cultists and those Umbarians who had figured prominently in the mob that had supported them were hunted down and put to the sword by Gondorian guardsmen. Curunir personally took command of the purge of the Black Serpent cult, not one of whose members within the walls of the city survived to tell any tales of the Blue Wizards and their deeds.

By dawn, the last echoes of fighting had died away, and a preternatural calm had descended over Umbar. The streets within the city and the fields beyond were strewn with the bodies of the dead beyond numbering. The slaughter of the Haradrim beyond the gates had been completed by the enraged Mumakil, who had also slain each other with abandon. Of the ten-thousand beasts who had charged proudly over the battlefield only two days before, only a few hundred had survived the carnage. Their riders thrown-off and trampled underfoot, their passions stilled by their exhaustion, they cried and trumpeted mournfully as they withdrew from the city, following by memory the southward trail that would return them to their distant jungle home.

They were followed by a mere handful of Haradrim, who seized whatever steeds they could find and rode southward for dear life, bearing a tale of treachery suffered at the hands of their kinsmen, and of the dreadful vengeance imposed on them by the terrible, stern-eyed Men of Gondor. Of the three-hundred thousand Men who had set out from Tibasht for Umbar, fired by visions of glory and plunder, not one in a hundred ever returned to his own hearth and home.

King Ciryaher, mounted on a steed of dappled grey, rode amongst the streets and alleys of Umbar surveying the carnage, his nose wrinkling at the stench of blood and death. At length, he arrived at the Eastern Gate. There he saw the brightly-robed figure of Curunir, leaning on his ebon staff, standing amidst the charred remains of more than a dozen Black Serpent cultists, and organizing parties of officers to press-gang the Umbarian civilians into collecting and burning the bodies of the dead. The corpses of the Oliphaunts, too vast to move, would be left to rot, their bleached bones littering the desert as a testament to the power and the wrath of Gondor.

As Curunir saw the King approach, he excused himself from his grim labours, and gave Ciryaher a low, sweeping bow.

"Your Majesty," said Curunir in a deep, sombre voice. "I trust everything that has transpired meets with your satisfaction. If I may make so bold, I perceive that the First Battle of Umbar, at which your late father Ciryandil was tragically slain, shall be remembered as merely a test, a trial of strength between the Men of the West and those of the South. But this Second Battle of Umbar, which you had feared lost, shall forever be recorded in the Annals of Gondor as a glorious victory for the Men of the West, one which shall buy peace along the southern frontiers of your empire for many generations."

King Ciryaher stared down at the charred corpses of the Black Serpent cultists, as mute and pitiful as the countless thousands of bodies he had seen in his ride from the Citadel. His face was calm, but his grey eyes were distant and sad.

"Yes," replied the King in a soft voice. "Yes. A great victory, Curunir, as you had foretold. Although…" Curunir raised a dark eyebrow, but the King failed to notice. "Although," continued Ciryaher, "at such a price…"

"It was unavoidable, Your Majesty," replied Curunir evenly. "War is a terrible business; but once it is unleashed, you must see it through to the bitter end."

"Your words are wise, Curunir the White," sighed the King. "And I, indeed all us folk of Gondor are eternally in your debt. You have only to ask me for anything, and it shall be yours."

"Your Majesty is as generous as he is fair," smiled Curunir, bowing again.

"Still," confessed the King, staring through the gates at the countless piles of rotting flesh that had once been mighty Oliphaunts of Harad. "Still, I confess this battle has changed me. I used to view war as a great game, an adventure, or so it seemed to me as I skirmished with Rhunlings and Haradrim on the frontiers in my youth. But it was never like this, never so many dead beyond counting. I see war now for what it is; a dreadful, bloody slaughter. Fate may call upon me to fight again in the future, and if so I shall do my duty; but, no longer shall I glory in it. Hereafter I shall take what pleasure I can in life from the scholarship and lore beloved of my late father Ciryandil, not in the din and strife of battle."

* * *

"That is, no doubt, as it should be," replied Curunir, his dark eyes inscrutable.

Two months later, the victory celebrations lined the broad, marble-flagged streets of Osgiliath, City of the Stars from its Eastern to its Western gate, and they lasted for seven days and three. As Curunir had prophesied, the citizens of Gondor had met news of the Second Battle of Umbar with wild enthusiasm, and it was celebrated as one of the greatest of the many victories in the history of that proud realm. True, many mothers had lost their sons, wives their husbands, and children their fathers. But when set against the honour obtained by the annihilation of a hated foe, and the promise of peace in the South for many long years to come, these things, sad though they may have been, weighed but little in the balance in the minds of most Gondor folk. Flushed with pride, they were determined to celebrate and fete the mighty victors of the battle, and none more so than their King, and his trusted aide, Curunir the White. Their anticipation had grown throughout the festivities, for the King and the White Wizard had camped and tarried at the Crossroads of Ithilien throughout most of the celebrations, only entering Osgiliath by its Eastern Gate on the final and supreme day of the revelry, when the fever of victory had reached its peak.

On that fair day, King Hyarmendacil – "South-victor", the name by which Ciryaher was ever after known in the Annals of Gondor – who was bedecked in his gold-filigreed, silvered armour and sable cape, and was wearing his winged and clear-gemmed silver crown, rode at the head of the victory parade in a chariot of solid gold, drawn by eight magnificent black stallions. He passed down the broad, graceful streets of the city, which were full of countless citizens, cheering and waving as they stood under a gentle rain of flower petals showered upon them by maidens standing on their balconies and rooftops.

By the King's side in the chariot stood Curunir the White, his ebon staff held proudly in his long, pale hand, his white hair and beard trimmed and groomed, his tall frame robed in magnificent robes of brilliant white wool, a gift from Hyarmendacil. Rumour had spread amongst the people that this mysterious scholar and traveler Curunir had brought secrets from the Southlands that had turned the tide of battle, and allowed their King to transform a desperate struggle against the vast army of the Haradrim into a swift and total victory for the Army of Gondor. While their King, of course, received the lion's share of the credit for that victory, the people were determined that the courageous, benevolent old Man who had proved so invaluable to him should also receive his fair share of the praise and the reward. Neither the grateful King nor the White Wizard found any fault with the people's sentiments in that regard.

The King's chariot crossed the Eastern bridge over the Anduin, and turned south into the courtyard of the Palace, where it was greeted by a cheering throng of nobles and courtiers, the men in their richest robes and furs, the women in their most elegant dresses and finery. The King dismounted, followed by Curunir, and they strode down the courtyard and up the steps, between two columns of the Royal Household Guard lining the stairs up to the silvered Palace doors. The doors were open, and they passed through them and down the long marble-columned entrance corridor, followed at a respectful distance by the nobles.

Arriving in the throne room, its dark blue roof shimmering with the light of the Sun reflected through its star-gems, the King strode towards his silver throne, turned, and seated himself proudly, the very image of regal dignity. Curunir stood at a respectful distance to his right. The nobles and courtiers filed into the room, stopping short a few paces before Curunir, and their gossip and chatter faded into silence as their King signaled to them that he wished to speak.

"My friends," said King Hyarmenadcil, "my friends, today we celebrate victory."

The nobles began to cheer, but the King cut them short with a wave of his hand.

"My friends," he continued, "there are many who say that I was the author of our victory. And I appreciate your kind words. But I must say plainly, it is not King Ciryaher Hyarmendacil of the House of Anarion whom you should thank."

The nobles began to murmur at these words, and one or two shouted "No, my liege, you are the victor!"

"No," he replied, waving his head somberly. "No, I say again, do not offer your thanks to your King. I merely did my duty. Rather offer your thanks as follows; first, to the brave soldiers of Gondor's Army of the South!"

A loud cheer rose up from the nobles, and a round of applause that lasted for some minutes. The King then gestured for them to be silent, and continued his remarks.

"And second, but certainly not least, offer your thanks to the Man whom you see standing before my throne; Curunir the White! Truly is he known as the "Man of Skill", for it was by his wisdom and his abilities that we defeated the Haradrim. All of us owe him a great debt, and I decree that henceforth he shall rank as a honourary Lord of Gondor, with all the privileges and income accruing to that station. His name and honourary rank shall be added to the Rolls of Nobility forthwith. Offer Lord Curunir your thanks, and your praise!"

The nobles cheered again, though perhaps with a bit less fervour than before, and sustained a lengthy round of polite applause for the mysterious Curunir, the outlander of uncertain origins who had risen so high in the esteem of their King, and to whom it seemed they owed a tremendous debt.

The King again gestured for the nobles to be silent, and then indicated to Curunir that he should speak a few words.

"My dear friends," smiled Curunir, speaking in his smoothest, most mellow tones, "I humbly accept your thanks, unworthy of it though I may be. Indeed, if I may make so bold as to gainsay His Majesty, it is to the King and his brave soldiers that you owe your victory, not to me. I merely offered the King such counsel as seemed fit." A few of the younger nobles began to whisper amongst themselves of the rumors they had heard concerning Curunir's strangely powerful Voice, and the role it had played in the battle, but the White Wizard continued without interruption:

"There is no higher calling than to serve others, and in so far as I have been of service and shall continue to be of service to Gondor, then I shall not consider my efforts to have been in vain. Gondor has won the victory, and on that account her people shall enjoy many long years of peace."

The nobles began to cheer again, but Curunir gestured for them to be silent. "For my part, while I am most grateful for the generous rewards bestowed on me by His Majesty, I ask but one thing of all of you." His voice became deeper and graver now. "Do not let Gondor's vigilance wane! For though long the years of peace may seem to you and your offspring, the day shall come when the storms of war gather again. When that day arrives, Gondor must be ready to answer the call. Be vigilant, and be strong, brave Men of the West!"

The nobles reflected somberly on Curunir's words, until the King indicated that they should offer their thanks for his wisdom. Then they broke into another round of applause, and of cheering, before the King led them from the Throne Room towards the sumptuous feast laid out in the Banquet Hall.


	11. The Shadow of Mirkwood

**XI.) The Shadow of Mirkwood**

Aiwendil the Brown sat in a comfortable chair on the porch of his timbered longhouse, imbibing an herbal liqueur from a small wooden bowl and breathing in the flower-scented air of the Vale of Rhosgobel.

Rhosgobel was a broad, rich valley that lay on the eastern shores of the Great River Anduin, between the Old Ford to the south, the granite peak of the Carrock to the north, and the borders of the vast Greenwood to the east. Scattered groves of birch tress lined the grassy, gentle slopes, and a winding stream flowed from the depths of the forest some miles of the east through the valley, joining the Anduin above the Old Ford.

In this place, by the threshold of the greatest forest of the northern world, Aiwendil the Brown had chosen to settle some eight decades after his arrival in Middle Earth. His lands were bounded by a simple fence of wooden rails, within which he had planted gardens bearing all manner of herbs and flowers, trees and vegetables, from the ethereal and decorative to the medicinal, edible and practical. Here also he welcomed and befriended the many birds and beasts who took shelter amid the trees and the gardens. Though the dark fastness of the Greenwood shadowed the eastern rim of the valley, and though Middle Earth was a violent and dangerous land, Aiwendil had set his power over Rhosgobel. Within its bounds, evil things could not enter.

Aiwendil's turf-roofed longhouse, set into a bank along the northern slopes of the vale, was a rambling, one-storied affair, walled of dressed logs, and carved with flowing designs of the local clans of Northmen that were coloured with pigments of green and red. Several chimneys of mortared granite blocks rose through the roof, puffing smoke merrily as Aiwendil boiled down herbs and flowers for use in medicinal and other experiments. The small-paned windows of stained glass and the wooden porch faced south, so as to catch as much sunlight as possible – an important feature in a land where the winters were long and often harsh. But it was high summer now; the sky was clear and bright, and warm breezes scented with flowers and herbs sailed down the valley, affording Aiwendil the opportunity to open up the windows and the heavy, solid doors to let in the breeze, and to pull several high-backed chairs and a side-table onto the porch, sheltered from the chance of the odd rainstorm by the overhanging roof.

As Aiwendil sat in his chair, listening to the cheerful birdsong and the buzzing of many bees, and savouring the fresh, clean scents of the flower gardens that occupied the lawn in front of his house, he heard the humming and whistling of a merry tune from behind a grove of birch trees that lay south the gardens. As he turned in his seat he saw the form of an aging Man, dressed in robes of grey, his grey-bearded face hidden by a peaked hat of blue, a silver scarf of thin, shimmering cloth slung over his shoulder. He bore a long wooden staff in his right hand, and rode a mare of dappled brown and white. The traveler turned and followed the path that led trough the gardens.

With a growing smile on his ruddy, bearded face, Aiwendil set down his bowl of liqueur, got up from his chair, and strode down the path from his door to the gardens to greet his visitor.

"Mirthrandir!" he cried, in his rich, fruity voice. "After a full score of years, at last we meet again!" The green flecks in Aiwendil's brown eyes sparkled merrily as he gazed on his old friend.

Mithrandir looked up from under the broad rim of his peaked hat, his azure eyes keen and bright as he returned the welcome.

"Indeed, Aiwendil," smiled the Grey Wizard, in his deep but rasping voice. "Here I am at Rhosgobel at the Noon-time of Midsummer's Day, just as requested."

"You should call me Radagast, while in these parts," laughed the Brown Wizard. "That is the name the local Northmen have given me."

"Is that so?" asked the Grey Wizard, dismounting from his steed, and removing his pale blue hat with his left hand, so that his long grey hair was stirred by the gentle breeze. He breathed deeply, his checks flushing with a rosy glow, and then exhaled.

"Good air in this place," he offered. "Well, if you're Radagast the Brown now, so be it. Indeed, I had rumour of you by that name during my sojourn amongst the Men of these parts, on the road from Rivendell to Rhosgobel. You may wish to know that the Northmen refer to me as Gandalf – though how they could mistake anyone with a face as plain as mine for an Elf is beyond me. Perhaps they associate me with the Elves, seeing that I had journeyed from Rivendell, and hearing that I had dwelt with Lord Elrond for a time."

"Gandalf the Grey," smiled Radagast. "A fitting name for you, I deem. And where did you obtain that silver scarf, if I may ask? The material appears of very fine quality."

"A gift from Master Elrond," said Gandalf. "I seem to have cracked his initial reserve towards me, for we have grown closer in recent years. Indeed, he has done me the honour of naming me and Elf-Friend."

"I'm pleased to hear it," replied Radagast. "Well, let me conduct your steed to the stables, and then we can sit and talk, my friend. Curunir the White has yet to arrive."

Gandalf took his saddlebag and strode towards the porch, while Radagast led the mare to the stables, which adjoined the eastern wing of his long house. After seeing to it that the beast was fed and watered, he returned to the porch, where he found Gandalf, who had set his saddlebag, staff and hat on the porch, was sitting in one of the high-backed chairs, enjoying the view of the brightly-coloured gardens.

"A fine spot you have here indeed, Radagast," smiled Gandalf. "Very soothing."

"I hoped you would like it," replied Radagast. "A moment though, while I carry your baggage to your room inside. Is there anything I can offer you to eat or drink? I've a flask of mead that might be of interest, made by bees from the pollen of these very flowers in the gardens before you."

"Some mead would go down nicely, thank you," replied Gandalf. "And perhaps some bread and butter, if you have any, and a pitcher of cream. And a large portion of firm ripened cheese, and some pickles, and a strawberry tart or three, if the strawberries are yet in season?"

"Ah, well, right away," said Radagast, unsuccessfully trying to hide his surprise at Gandalf's appetite. Quickly snatching up the Grey Wizard's saddlebag and hat – though not his staff – he then busied himself in his kitchen for some minutes. He then returned with a large wooden platter, bearing the foodstuffs he had prepared, which he set down on the table.

"You're a stout fellow, Radagast," smiled Gandalf, as he pulled his chair over to the table and tucked into his meal, demolishing the contents of the tray with astonishing speed. He then poured a healthy serving of mead into a large wooden bowl, pulled his chair over to Radagast's, and sat next to the Brown Wizard, conversing with him over draughts of the amber fluid.

"Delightful stuff!" smiled Gandalf. "Master Elrond's vintners at Rivendell could have done no better." Radagast beamed at the praise. "But tell me," asked Gandalf, "how did you manage to build such a sizeable house, and landscape these grounds, all by your own efforts?"

"It was not by my own efforts," replied Radagast. "When I first resolved to settle in these parts, I moved amongst the Northmen of this upper Vale of Anduin, succoring and befriending them as best I could. After some years of healing their sicknesses, tending their wounds, and offering them the benefit of some of my herb and beast lore, they adopted me as if I were a wise man amongst their own folk. They built this house for me as a token of gratitude for my aid, and helped shape the grounds. Though I assisted them somewhat with the house; they knew not the use of glass, nor of chimneys, having but shutters on the windows and holes in the roofs of their own houses. Indeed, you may have noticed on your journey here that some of the newest houses of the Northmen bear the improvements of glass windows and proper chimneys."

"Indeed I did," nodded Gandalf. "You seem to have done a great deal of good amongst these simple people, Radagast. Most commendable of you."

"Thank you again, Gandalf," replied Radagast.

"Do you know, I saw the most curious thing this morning," said Gandalf, changing the subject. "Only a few miles down the valley, west of your enclosure."

"What was that?" asked Radagast.

"It was a creature, like to a Man. But only half as tall!"

"They're called 'children'," replied Radagast, wondering if Gandalf had already imbibed too much of the mead.

"I know what a child is, for goodness' sake!" snapped Gandalf, shaking his head. "This creature was no bigger than a child, but appeared to be a fully grown example of its kind. It was dressed in a cloak woven together from leaves, which covered much of its body, though not its arms or legs. It had rosy cheeks, and warm brown eyes, and a shaggy head of chestnut brown hair – and its feet were covered in hair too, if you please!" He laughed, his bright blue eyes twinkling mischievously. "But you think I'm jesting, no doubt."

"Perhaps you are," replied Radagast. "But if not, then what you saw was a _Holbytla_."

"A what?" asked Gandalf, his bushy grey eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

"A _Holbytla_," repeated Radagast. "That's what the Northmen call them. That would mean a Halfling, in the Common Tongue."

"_Holbytla_," said Gandalf. "So you've seen one of these creatures yourself?"

"Not at all," replied Radagast. "In fact, I did not even know they truly existed. I though they were but a fancy of the Northmen, who believe the lands between the Misty Mountains and the Greenwood are inhabited by many strange creatures; some are quite real, though others mere figments of their imaginations. I had assumed that Halflings were the latter, until your tale of a moment ago – unless you are indeed jesting."

"Well, I'm certainly not," replied Gandalf. "It was a shy little creature, though."

"Yes, it is said they fear Men, and run and hide at the first sound or sight of them," noted Radagast. "If such creatures are indeed real, I'm surprised you saw one at all."

"He was injured," replied Gandalf. "Somehow he had slid down the treacherous bank of a stream, and twisted his ankle. He was in great fear at my approach, and he understood not my speech, but I did what I could to calm him. When I divined his injury, I gathered some Athelas herb from under a nearby bush, set the Athelas and my hands on his ankle, and spoke the words of a healing spell. His pain was gone, and for a moment he sat there, staring at me in wonder." Gandalf sighed. "Then he shot away down the stream-bed and into the underbrush. I was tempted to follow him, and see if I could find a dwelling of his kin; but I knew that I already risked running late for our meeting, so I let him alone."

"How remarkable," said Radagast, nodding his head. "A creature from a child's bedtime story, sprung to life."

"Yes, a most curious little fellow entirely," continued Gandalf. "Like a tiny Man it seemed, and yet different in spirit; less subtle and proud, more simple and innocent, but with great hardiness bred into it. I shall keep an eye open for more of its kind."

"I shall see if I can learn more of them for you," offered Radagast. "I had not enquired into the lore of such creatures, but I can ask my friends amongst the Men of these parts more about these Halflings, if you wish."

"That is most kind of you, my dear fellow."

"Not at all. But tell me now, how else have you kept busy, since our departure from Thranduil's Halls in the Greenwood?" enquired Radagast.

"I've been here and there," said Gandalf, waving his hand vaguely. "At Rivendell much of the time, but also to visit the Dwarves of Khazad-Dum in the heart of the Misty Mountains. Such strange folk they are, proud and stubborn, willfully dwelling apart from those not of their kindred, and yet with a strong sense of honour and extraordinary hostipitality toward their guests. And their stonework is truly a marvel to behold. You should see the mighty pillars of the Twenty-First Hall of the Seventh Level, and the wonders of the Chamber of Mazarbul!"

He sighed. "And also I have been to Laurelindorean on a second visit to the Golden Wood. I dwelt there for several years with Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel."

"A wondrous place!" said Radagast enthusiastically.

"Indeed it is," replied Gandalf, a far-away look in his eyes. "As you will recall, it seems that under the Lady Galadriel's influence, time is not there as it is in other, mortal lands. The Sun shines brightly there as it has not elsewhere in this Middle Earth since the First Age."

"I must visit there again, when I can find the time," replied Radagast, shaking his head. "Though there is so much work to attend to, now that that I have my own lands under my stewardship."

"Well, that's why I haven't settled down," laughed Gandalf. "Better to be a guest of landholders than a landholder myself! It allows me more time to concentrate my efforts on my foremost tasks. Indeed, I have been dwelt with Men too, from Bree and Fornost to the Lake-town at Esgaroth and the city of Dale; moving amongst them, learning from them, guiding them with my counsel where I may. Preparing them for the struggles that are to come."

A shadow fell across Gandalf has he spoke those words, and looking up, he and Radagast saw Curunir the White, who must have ridden up the path in such silence that neither the keen ears of Gandalf nor those of Radagast had heard him. The White Wizard, his long hair and bear neatly groomed, was garbed in flowing robes of dazzlingly white, rich cloth, formed from some material that shimmered in the light of the Sun. He held his ebon staff in his long, pale hand, and the gilded, bejeweled scabbard of an elegant longsword hung from his belt. He was mounted on a magnificent white stallion, whose saddle and bridle were of rich black leather inlaid with intricate designs in gold and silver leaf. His dark eyes, as they gazed upon the Grey and Brown Wizards, were calm and serene, betraying no emotion.

"Welcome, Curunir the White!" cried Radagast, as he and Gandalf arose from their chairs and bowed their heads in gesture of respect towards the leader of their Order.

"I have been deemed Saruman by the primitive Men of these lands," replied the White Wizard, dismounting from his steed. "The name Saruman the White will suffice while I sojourn in the North, though I remain Curunir in Gondor."

"Welcome, Saruman," replied Gandalf, whose blue eyes sparkled keenly as he took in the changes to Curunir's appearance, noting that his once dark hair was now almost entirely white, with traces of black remaining only in his eyebrows and beneath his lower lip. His face was also older, as if for a time he had lost the ability to delay the aging of his mortal body.

"We have earned our own names in the North," continued the Grey Wizard. "I am Gandalf in these parts, and Aiwendil is known as Radagast."

"Gandalf and Radagast. Well, it is long since we have last seen each other, old friends," replied Saruman with a smile, as Radagast led his steed to the stables beside Gandalf's. He set his ebon staff against the wall, next to Gandalf's, and sat down in a chair, motioning for the Grey Wizard to likewise be seated.

"You are wondering at the change in my appearance," offered Saruman without any prompting. "Suffice to say that my labours were heavy for a time, and they have told on me. But I have long since been restored to my full vigour." Gandalf nodded, but remained silent.

Radagast returned from the stables, slung Curunir's saddlebag over his shoulder, and turned to the White Wizard. "Is there anything I can offer you Saruman? Food? Drink? Gandalf here has nearly eaten me out of house and home, so I might not be able to offer you as much of the former as I would like," he laughed.

"I am not hungry. But have you any wine?" enquired Saruman. "I am especially keen on the red vintage of Dorwinion bearing the marque of the year 1087. It fetches a high price in the Great Market of Osgiliath, and rightly so. I am certainly keen on a change from the insipid ale served by the Men of these lands about Rhosgobel."

"Ah, well, I don't have any _wine_ as such," said Radagast apologetically. "I have made a distillation from the fruit of blueberries, which you might deem a sort of wine…" …

"That will suffice, I'm sure," replied Saruman with a sigh. He and Gandalf remained silent until Radagast returned a few moments later, bearing a flask of the blueberry elixir and a large wooden bowl. Radagast poured a generous helping of the dark blue fluid into the bowl, and offered it to Saruman, who raised his dark eyebrows at the sight of the crude vessel. The White Wizard took the bowl and sipped its contents cautiously, his nose wrinkling, before nodding and setting it down on the table alongside the remains of Gandalf's meal.

"A commendable effort," offered Saruman graciously, gesturing at the bowl. Radagast smiled, and then took his seat beside Gandalf. Silence fell again for some moments, as Gandalf and Radagast waited for the White Wizard to speak.

"Well, my friends," began Saruman, using the deep, mellow tone that he favoured at meetings of some import. "It is fully a century, one hundred years under the Sun of this Middle Earth, since our arrival at Mithlond, and our first council with Lord Cirdan. Much has transpired since. It was to see each other face-to-face and take counsel together that I sent messegers into the North, summoning you to a Council of Wizards, as Men have come to call we Istari. Radagast's new abode seemed to me as good a place as any for that purpose, far as it is from prying eyes and ears." Gandalf frowned at this remark, but remained silent.

"I have my own views on the paths that we should follow in the future," continued Saruman. "But first, I wish to hear your reports. When last we met, it was agreed that after meeting with the Lords Elrond and Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel, you would travel to these lands East of Anduin, seeking out King Thranduil and his Sylvan Elves, and then exploring the fastness of the Greenwood for rumours of a growing shadow there." He gestured to the East, where a low, almost ebon-black line along the eastern rim of the Vale of Rhosgobel marked the edge of that mighty forest. "What did you learn from your meetings with the Woodland King, and your travels along the woodland paths?"

"Less than we would have liked, and yet enough to make us take pause," replied Gandalf gravely. "We had some difficulty penetrating Thranduil's realm, for he takes an ill view of trespassers. But after our initial misunderstandings were set aside, we befriended him, and he opened up to us concerning his fears about the fate of his ancient realm, the forest which Men call the Greenwood, and which is known to Thranduil and his Sylvan Elves as _Eryn Galen_."

"Though it is always not known as the Greenwood any longer, to the Men of these parts at least," offered Radagast. "Mirkwood many of them now call it, since the shadow has deepened there."

"Yes, Mirkwood," nodded Gandalf. "And indeed, it seems that lately Thranduil's Elves have referred to it _Taur-e-Ndaedelos_, the Forest of Great Fear."

"I heard the forest called 'Mirkwood' on my journey north," noted Saruman. "But is there truly anything to fear within, beyond wild beasts and bandits, and the usual woodland dangers?"

"Well of course there is! Hence the name!" snapped Gandalf testily, as if the question hardly deserved an answer. Radagast raised his eyebrows in surprise at Gandalf's tone, though he had always known that patience and good manners were not chief amongst the Grey Wizard's strengths.

"Well then," replied Saruman, smoothing a crease in his robes. "I'll ask again, what manner of fearsome things are found in that forest?"

"Wargs," offered Radagast with a shudder. "Giant wolves, they are, big as a horse, vicious and keen-minded. And Orcs, foul, ghastly creatures all. And Spiders, huge, loathsome Spiders, whose eyes glitter like pale flames in the night, and whose fangs drip smoking venom. I can't tell you how many of the dreadful, eight-legged things Gandalf and I have had to slay, in our exploration of the forest. Take one step off the Elven Path that runs from near the Carrock, to Thranduil's Halls, and you're in for a most unpleasant journey indeed. The Old Forest Road is less used than it once was, for the Wargs and Orcs and Spiders and other foul creatures lie in wait along it, seeking to ambush unwary travelers."

"We heard rumours of such beasts a hundred years ago," frowned Saruman. "Have you learned no more than that? What of this _shadow_ itself?"

"The shadow is both within and without those who travel through Mirkwood," replied Gandalf, who had regained control of his temper. "Without, for there is a physical shadow that grows ever deeper. Under the boughs of Mirkwood, the darkness almost seems to be a tangible thing – it is not merely the absence of light, but rather it _devours _light entirely."

Saruman frowned more deeply. "And within?"

"Within," replied Gandalf, "a Shadow of Fear. I felt its traces myself, though it did not press too deeply upon my heart. But the Elves feel it more keenly, and it grows stronger the farther they journey into the forest towards its southern reaches, away from the safety of their underground halls near the Long Lake. And Men, it seems, though many live along the western edges of the forest, and by its eastern edge at the Long Lake, are in such dread of Mirkwood that they no longer dare enter within at all, save in large, armed parties of hunters and wood-gatherers."

"But by your account, there is good reason for such fear," noted Saruman. "Wargs and such. Is that all we have established, that Mirkwood, as you now call it, has grown dark, and is home to foul, unnatural beasts?"

"There is more…" whispered Radagast. "There is the Necromancer of Dol Guldur."

"The what?" said Saruman, looking up sharply. "And where is this Dol Guldur? I've never heard of it."

"It is a very recent rumour," replied Gandalf. "It has only spread amongst the woodmen and those of the river-valley in the past few years, and they speak of it only in whispers. You should understand that it is twenty years since Radagast and I last spoke with Thranduil, or trod the paths of the Greenwood, that is Mirkwood ourselves. In any case, _I_ first heard of this rumor but a few weeks ago, as I journeyed east of the Misty Mountains on my way here to Rhosgobel. It seems someone, or perhaps we should say some_thing_, has established itself in the south of Mirkwood. It has built a Dark Tower in which to dwell, and calls itself 'Necromancer', which simply means a black sorcerer of some sort. Those Northmen who have commerce with Thranduil's Elves say the Elves have named that place _Dol Guldur_, Hill of Sorcery. That's where it lives."

"Why do you say 'it' and not 'he'?" asked Saruman. "Is this Necromancer not a Man?"

"Well, that is indeed the question," replied Gandalf dryly. "What is the Necromancer, or who is he?"

"And have you found the answer?" enquired Saruman.

"I have not, for my part," admitted Radagast. Saruman stared at him, and then turned his dark gaze at Gandalf.

"I know not for certain," said Gandalf. "I only know of these rumors. But if the rumors are true, then this creature, this Necromancer is fearsomely powerful in the Black Arts."

Saruman nodded wordlessly. At length, he said, "It is not impossible for a sorcerer amongst Men to have knowledge of those arts, incomplete and imperfect though it may be."

"Perhaps," frowned Gandalf. "But my heart tells me this creature is not a Man, or at least is no longer a Man. I fear it might in truth be…" He began muttering into his beard.

"Might be what?" asked Saruman, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I have no time for your riddles, Gandalf. Speak your mind plainly!"

Gandalf returned his gaze. "I fear this Necromancer is a Wraith. One of _his_ Wraiths."

"One of the Nine, the Nazgul of old?" asked Saruman, raising a dark eyebrow.

"If the rumors of its power are true, then yes," replied Gandalf, nodding gravely.

Saruman stared downward, silent for some minutes. At length, Radagast sought to break the silence by remarking, "Well, it is possible, Saruman. And his Wraiths might well foreshadow his own return, in time."

Saruman looked up at him, and then divided his gaze between the Grey and Brown Wizards, addressing them both. "It's 'possible'. You 'fear'. It 'might be'. In other words, though you have been given a century to learn the nature of the shadow that infests Mirkwood, you've learned nothing substantial at all! Any traveler through these lands could have learned what you have, if he listed to the gossip of the local peasants." His dark eyes were hard and inscrutable now. "I am disappointed, my friends. I expected more of both of you. You in particular, Gandalf."

Radagast hung his head, abashed at the White Wizard's stinging criticism. But Gandalf's blue eyes shone fiercely, and his eyebrows bristled.

"You expected more of us, did you Saruman?" replied the Grey Wizard, an acid tone to his rasping voice. "Well, please accept my apologies. We've only spent the best part of a century traveling the length and breadth of the Northlands, learning the ways of Elves and Men and Dwarves, preparing them for the struggles with the Enemy that lie ahead should he return. We know the impassible forest of Mirkwood like the backs of our hands, and have brought you word of dark tidings that are of very recent origin, and of which you yourself were unaware."

Gandalf took a deep breath, and continued. "No doubt it seems to you that, dwelling in your sumptuous palace at Osgiliath, savouring Dorwinion Red Vintage 1087, pouring over the archives of Minas Anor at your leisure, ingratiating yourself with the King of Gondor, and in general living off the fat of the land, you've accomplished far more than we have. Perhaps you'll offer us your own report, then?"

Radagast looked upward sharply, his jaw dropping at Gandalf's display of insolence. Saruman glared angrily at the Grey Wizard, and then cast aside his own manners. His voice was harsh and strident now.

"Living off the fat of the land?" asked Saruman. "So that's all you think I've accomplished? How very wise you are, Gandalf, how very perceptive. Though apparently not perceptive enough to realize that Gondor and all the Westlands owe to me their very existence! If not for me, all of these lands would have been overrun by the Easterlings and Southrons decades ago!"

"Ah yes," replied Gandalf. "Admittedly, I _have_ heard of the role you played at the Second Battle of Umbar. Forgive my calumny against you. Although, some might wonder if your part in that battle truly did more good than harm."

"And what do you mean by _that_?" asked Saruman, his voice taking on an ominous tone.

"I mean," replied Gandalf, "that you used your Voice to great effect in that battle. Or so I have gathered from the rumors of it. Indeed, your Voice was used to such great effect that it led the best part of three-hundred thousand Haradrim to their deaths."

"As it was intended to," replied Saruman.

"As it was intended to," repeated Gandalf. "Answer me this, Saruman. Why did you not simply put your sleeping spell on them, as you did on the Elves when we arrived at Mithlond a century ago? You alone have mastered that spell, and you wield it with ease. Had you used it on that day, fifty years ago, it would have given the Gondor-men ample time to round up the sleeping Haradrim and take them prisoner. Or if you cared not to use that spell, then you could have used your Voice to bid the Haradrim to lay down their swords, and depart in peace. Either way, countless lives would have been spared. And yet you took it upon yourself to act as judge of the Haradrim, and impose upon them the sentence of death. Tell me, Saruman, what purpose do we Istari serve in Middle Earth, if our methods are no less ruthless than those of Sauron himself?"

Though Saruman maintained a vestige of outward composure, inwardly he waxed wroth at Gandalf's presumptuous questions and open insults. Who did the Grey Wizard think he was, to challenge the White? He was almost as bad as…

Pushing the thought from his mind, Saruman replied to Gandalf in a stern voice. "If you have ever wondered why the Valar choose me instead of you to lead our Order, Gandalf the _Grey_, now you have your answer. You think yourself wise, but beyond any doubt you understand nothing of leadership or the arts of war, and even less of the nature of Men. The hearts of Men are dark, and long do they bear grudges, passing on their hatreds from father to son. This is above all true of the Southrons, who like the Easterlings live and die by the sword, and to whom the Blood Feud is the highest call of duty. And they still serve Sauron in their inmost hearts. Yea, they are little more than Sauron's pawns. And as long as Sauron endures, there can be no enduring peace between them and the Men of Gondor, only periods of respite. Thus, I did what I had to do in order to dispel the threat the Haradrim pose to Gondor for generations!"

He pointed a long finger at the Grey Wizard. "If you will the ends, Gandalf, you must will the means. That is a solemn truth, a law of nature. I advise you to reflect on it, before letting your tongue wag again."

Gandalf stared at the White Wizard, by no means prepared to concede defeat. "So the ends justify the means, Saruman?" he replied. "But surely, if the means are evil, in time they will corrupt the ends themselves."

He then pointed his own finger back at Saruman. "And here is something else upon which _you_ should reflect. If the Haradrim show no mercy, it is because they have never been _shown_ mercy by anyone. Had you spared their lives, and had they by that token seen Gondor show them _mercy_, even though _justice_ called for their deaths, they would have been amazed. You could have planted a seed in their hearts that would have endured and grown through generations, softening their hard ways, reconciling them with the Gondor-men until there no longer was enmity between them, but peace enduring. _That_ would have been leadership."

He sighed, folding his hands in his lap. "But instead, you have ensured that the survivors who escaped the battle will remain unchanged in their hearts. They will pass their hatred onto their sons, and there will indeed be no peace between the Men of the West, and those of the South. Your prophecy shall be self-fulfilling."

Saruman dismissed Gandalf's remarks with a wave of his hand. "Your naivety is boundless, Gandalf. If you offered such counsel in the Throne Room of Osgiliath, the King and his nobles would take you for either a fool, or a madman. They know, as do I, that a leader is one who wades the fray, doing what must be done. He is of little use if he instead views events from a safe distance, offering pious homilies rather than making the difficult choices that need to be made."

Gandalf appeared about to reply, but Saruman cut him short. "I will brook no more discussion of this issue, Gandalf. It is closed."

Gandalf frowned, while Radagast fidgeted with his sleeve, desperately thinking of how to restore the breach that had suddenly come between his two friends.

"Now, now," said Radagast at length. "Peace! We are not at war amongst each other. Saruman doubtless did what he felt was right, Gandalf. He is our leader, and it is not our place to gainsay him."

The Brown Wizard turned to Saruman. "As for Gandalf, Saruman, remember that beneath his gruff exterior, he conceals his deep compassion for others. It is painful to Gandalf to hear of suffering and death, especially when he believes they could have been averted – true or not as his belief may be."

Gandalf looked down and muttered something inaudible under his breath. Saruman, meanwhile, was brooding over Gandalf's display of insolence. How did Gandalf dare to be so brash, so bold? Where did he find the confidence to challenge the White Wizard, and…

And then, for a fleeting instant Saruman's keen eyes, which saw with more than mortal sight, caught a glimpse of it. Narya, Ring of Fire, one of the Three Rings of the Elves. _And it was concealed by a spell of illusion on Gandalf's right hand!_

Saruman's mouth fell open, and he stared dumbly as if thunderstruck. Gandalf looked up at him sharply, and Radagast stared quizzically.

_How was it possible? _Saruman's thoughts raced frantically. How did Gandalf obtain the Ring of Fire? Surely not by his own efforts and against the will of the Elves. His mind groped desperately through the various possibilities…

And then realized the true answer was the simplest one. Gandalf bore the Ring of Fire, because the Elves had given it to him of their own free will. _They had freely chosen Gandalf over Saruman to bear their precious Ring._

Saruman's shock was transformed into rage, deep and dark and cold, at this gross insult to his pride. The Elves had chosen to honour Gandalf the Grey, and spurn Saruman the White! It was outrageous…unfair…shameful!

Within seconds, Saruman's keen mind discerned the true reason for the Elves' choice. Saruman was powerful, more powerful by far than any Elf, even the Lady Galadriel. Gandalf, by contrast, was weaker than the White Wizard. But the Elves had ever been vain and jealous, and they had long begrudged their slow fading into the Twilight, as their leading place in Middle Earth was usurped by mortal Men. Saruman had come to succor the Men of the West, first and foremost…and thus the Elves had given Narya to Gandalf, so he could use it to magnify his own power.

Gandalf was still weaker than Saruman, but he had become strong enough now to challenge the White Wizard openly…and deceitful and ambitious enough to try and hide Narya from Saruman's eyes, rather than confess to him what the Elves had done…and foolish enough to serve as a pawn of the Elves, who had proven to be no friends of the White Wizard, and whose own agenda doubtless did not include their fading gracefully to make way for the Dominion of Men – the very Dominion which Saruman had been sent to prepare, as his foremost purpose.

Yes, Gandalf was being manipulated by the sly and treacherous Elves of Middle Earth, just as Alatar and Pallando had been manipulated by the Black Numenoreans of Umbar, and through them by Sauron. Of the five Wizards, three of them – Gandalf, Alatar, and Pallando – had fallen, had proven faithless and untrustworthy. Only Radagast the Brown still appeared loyal to Saruman.

And Radagast, as Saruman knew well, was a simple-minded fool.

Saruman felt under siege from all sides; from Sauron and Gandalf, from Elves and Wraiths and evil Men. And he could rely on no-one other than himself, of any real consequence, in the struggle against them. He was alone.

Meanwhile, as these thoughts had formed in Saruman's mind, Gandalf had gathered himself for another assault against the White Wizard.

"Very well, Saruman," he said. "We will not speak of this again. But there is another question I am very keen to hear you answer."

Gandalf gestured vaguely to the East and the South. "Where are the Blue Wizards? What has happened to our friends Alatar and Pallando? They journeyed east of Anduin with you, it is rumoured. That is the last anyone has seen or heard of them. And then years later you emerged from the South at Umbar, alone. What has happened to them? Have they made any progress at all in their mission to begin the taming the Easterlings and Southrons? If not, then what obstacles have they encountered? Do you know, or can you at least guess?"

Saruman turned his dark gaze on Gandalf. "They have strayed from the path," he replied solemnly. "They have failed our Order." _As have you, _he thought to himself.

Now it was the turn of the Grey and Brown Wizards to stare open-mouthed in shock.

"What do you mean, that they have failed?" asked Radagast. "That they have strayed? Has something terrible happened to them? You must tell us!"

"_I must tell you nothing!"_ cried Saruman, in a deep, booming voice the echoed across the valley like thunder. He stood to his feet, tall and proud, and as the echoes of his voice faded away the Vale of Rhosgobel was deathly silent.

"_I_ am the head of our Order!" continued Saruman, his dark eyes blazing fiercely. "It is _I _who question and command, and _you _who obey! I have told you what I deem sufficient, and you will be satisfied with it, or hold your tongue if you are not!"

Thoroughly cowed, Radagast subsided into his chair, begging forgiveness. But Gandalf had also leapt to his feet, and now he confronted the White Wizard openly.

"That simply will not _do_, Saruman," said Gandalf angrily, stamping on the porch with his black-booted foot to emphasize his point. "Radagast and I have a right to know what has happened to our comrades, who make up fully two-fifths of our Order. You might have frightened him into silence, but _I_ insist you tell us what you know about the Blue Wizards and their fate!"

"You _insist_?" asked Saruman, his voice deepening ominously, drawing out the "s" as if in a hiss.

"It is not your place to i_nsist_ I tell you anything, Gandalf the _Grey_," warned Saruman. "If you have lost your hearing as well as your wits, I shall repeat myself one last time. _I_ am the head of our Order! _I _decide what you need to know, and what you do not! The Blue Wizards have strayed and fallen, and you shall hear no more from them. How and why they fell, I may tell you in the future, as I deem fit. Or, I may not."

He pointed his long finger at the Grey Wizard. "But _you_ should choose your words and your fights more carefully, Gandalf. I have endured your insolent tongue all this afternoon, but no longer. My patience with you is near exhausted. Know this; you would be well-advised never again to issue commands to me as if I were your servant," – he paused - "unless, perhaps, you think _you_ should occupy my station as Leader of the Istari?"

Radagast maintained a frightened silence at this dreadful confrontation, licking his lips as hisgaze flicked back and forth between his friends. Gandalf likewise remained silent, though his bright blue eyes bored into Saruman's dark orbs, as if striving to sweep aside the invisible veil that surrounded the White Wizard and peer into his inmost thoughts.

But then, Gandalf turned his gaze to the ground, and bowed deeply. "Forgive me, Saruman," he said contritely, in a low, tired voice. "I have indeed spoken above myself, and my choice of words was poor. It was not my place to challenge you. Radagast and I must trust you to do what you think is best."

Saruman regarded him for some moments, his visage hard and inscrutable, before his features relaxed into a thin smile, as he appeared mollified by the Grey Wizard's remarks.

"I accept your apology, Gandalf," he replied, his voice now smooth and mellow. "No doubt you mean well, however crude your speech may be. But, as you say, you must trust me to do what is best. As I must have faith in you and Radagast. Only together, trusting in each other, can we hope to defeat Sauron and his minions."

"Here, here!" said Radagast heartily, mightily relieved to see that his friends had regained their good senses. "That's right, no use sparring with each other, is there?"

Saruman smiled more broadly now, his dark eyes flashing with seeming warmth, and yet betraying nothing of what lay beneath.

* * *

As the Sun began to sink into the West, casting long shadows eastward from the peaks of the Misty Mountains, Saruman departed Rhosgobel on his white stallion. He had not intended to tarry long at Radagast's dwelling in any case, but Gandalf's announced intention to remain with his friend Radagast for several weeks had prompted Saruman to depart for the South as soon as the council meeting had concluded.

Saruman's instructions to his fellow Wizards had been quite simple. Radagast, dwelling near Mirkwood, was to continue his watch over it, and report at once if he received any solid information as to the true identity of the Necromancer of Dol Guldur, or of any new threats from that quarter. Gandalf was to focus more of his efforts on Men in the North, and less on the Elves – "You are needed more by the King at Fornost than by Elrond of Rivendell," he had said; and Gandalf, apparently keen to appear less argumentative after their earlier confrontation, had assented without comment.

Saruman would return to Gondor, and continue combing through the archives of Minas Anor, in particular seeing if there was anything in them he could correlate with the rumors of the Necromancer and his activities to unravel the mystery of that dark sorcerer's identity. The three Wizards would meet again in another hundred years at the very latest; much sooner than that, if new events or discoveries occurred that required their combined wisdom to interpret. In the meantime, Radagast would henceforth use his trained birds to carry messages between himself, Gandalf and Saruman as need required. And Saruman made it clear that he considered the breach between himself and Gandalf to have been merely a heated exchange of views, of no lasting concern.

Or so he wanted Gandalf to believe. For in truth, Gandalf's possession of Narya, and his attempt to disguise it from Saruman, had permanently undone Saruman's faith in the Grey Wizard. He would use Gandalf when he had to in the fight against Sauron, and he would try to insulate him from the influence of the Elves; hence his instructing him to spend more time at Fornost, and less time at Rivendell. But he would never again trust Gandalf the Grey.

As he rode south and west, toward the Old Ford that crossed the Anduin, Saruman contemplated the extent of Gandalf's powers, and his ambitions, now that he possessed the Ring of Fire. In truth, he soon realized, both were unknown. He was certain that Gandalf was still weaker than he was, but he was less certain precisely how much Gandalf's power had been magnified by Narya, or what skills and abilities it might give the Grey Wizard that were beyond his own ken. And at Gandalf's ambitions, he could only guess; his behaviour at the council meeting had clearly betrayed his wish to lead the Order of the Istari; but whether he desired more than that, Saruman was unsure. He could not put out of his mind the sweeping ambitions of Alatar and Pallando.

That Gandalf had backed down at the council meeting, and apologized to Saruman, was in Saruman's opinion no more than a tactical move, as had been Saruman's acceptance of the apology. It might take Gandalf centuries to fully unlock Narya's secrets, and until then, Gandalf doubtless preferred for his rivalry with Saruman not to escalate into an open duel of wizardly powers. For his part, Saruman, having nearly suffered disaster as the consequence of his underestimating the Blue Wizards, was not prepared to make the same mistake concering the Grey Wizard. As long as Gandalf wielded unknown powers, Saruman could not afford any further open confronations with him.

Saruman recognized, of course, that meant he must make learning the extent of Gandalf's powers an utmost priority, which in turn meant learning all he could of Narya, the other Elven Rings, and the Rings of Power generally. And this Ring-lore was not merely important on account of Gandalf. The Rings of Power were rooted in Sauron's schemes for dominon, and his long-lost One Ring was the cornerstone of his strength and skill, and the master key that could unlock the power of all the other Rings. Saruman had already understood long before that he could not hope to best Sauron unless he could first access the Dark Lord's power, in order to turn it against him. Now, Saruman realized, prudence also demanded he learn as much as he could of Ring-lore lest Gandalf the Grey someday confront him with more than mere words.

Yes, concluded Saruman, both his rivalry with Gandalf and his enmity with Sauron pointed in one direction; he, the White Wizard, must become a master of Ring-lore. No, more than that; _the _Master of Ring-lore. He would still offer the Gondor-men counsel and aid when they requested it, but for now building the coming Dominon of Men could no longer be his focus. He must, at all costs, attain complete mastery of the lore regarding the Rings of Power; necessity required that all other purposes be subordinate to that supreme purpose.

And when he had mastered fully all Ring-lore…who knew what he could accomplish? To command the Rings of Power was to command Middle Earth itself.

Saruman smiled at the thought, and continued his lone journey as the shadows lengthened in the East.

_The End_


End file.
